#;; rain against the window {musings} | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

honeytae · 4 months ago

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“you refuse to meet his gaze, afraid that your carefully constructed facade will crumble if you do. and it seems like that's exactly what is happening - the walls you've built around yourself are slowly falling apart.”

genre: angst, fluff, comfort

warnings: reader is overworked af and petrified of showing vulnerability, brief argument between reader and jk but only bc he cares, so many tears..like a LOT of crying, descriptions of kissing, make out sesh💋, an unforgivable amount of fluff and L bombs, i really didn’t know what to call this one so it’s just riptide, sorry not sorry you guys

wc: 2k

the air in the apartment is mostly silent, save for the gentle scratch of lead on paper and the muted pattering of rain against the windows in your home office.

jungkook’s teeth play with his bottom lip as he fidgets in his seat, intently observing you from the opposite end of the table.

across from him, your brows knit together in an attempt to focus, lips pursed in concentration as you stop for a moment, then resume moving your pencil across the page.

he cringes at the disruption of his phone vibrating on the table, abruptly snapping you out of your daze.

as your pencil slips out of your grasp, you sit up straight and flex your fingers around in the air to release some of the tension residing in your joints.

jungkook murmurs an apology but you brush it off, glancing wearily at him and providing a small smile. a sigh of relief escapes you as he leans in, taking your hand in his and gently massaging your tired fingers with a few strokes of his own.

“that feels good,” you mumble, shifting closer to the table for more of his touch.

he hums softly, taking another few moments to work his fingers into your skin, creating a small pocket of silence.

"are you bored?" you ask, feeling a twinge of guilt for leaving him essentially alone at the table. "i'm sorry, baby, i'll be finished in just a few more minutes."

jungkook shrugs in response, casual as he moves his arm to gently rub up and down your own. his touch is comforting and helps ease your anxiety, preventing you from spiraling further.

“it's okay,” he reassures you with a gentle smile, “just take your time. i'll be here.”

his eyes shift from your face to your hand, a frown forming as he notices the red mark on your finger, evidence of how tightly you've been holding your pencil.

you watch, endeared, as he leans down to kiss the spot, then replaces his lips with his finger, gently rubbing over the indentation to soothe the redness.

"you work so hard," he says, tutting his tongue as he continues running his thumb over the spot.

you can only manage a sigh in response, feeling drained and unable to speak. plus, tears are starting to form in your eyes, and you’re desperately trying to hold them back. jungkook notices, of course he does.his expression turns into one of concern as he studies your face, trying to assess the situation.

your mouth is set in a deep frown, almost a scowl, and your eyebrows are furrowed in discomfort from holding back your true emotions. you refuse to meet his gaze, afraid that your carefully constructed facade will crumble if you do. and it seems like that's exactly what is happening - the walls you've built around yourself are slowly falling apart.

in a rush, he rises from his chair and rounds the table, your eyes following him through tears.

once next to you, his fingers weave through your hair, leading your head to rest on his stomach. he wraps his arm around you and massages the tension from your shoulders as you nestle into the soft fabric of his t-shirt, taking in the familiar scent of his laundry detergent.

“time for a break?” he muses, watching as you adamantly shake your head in response.

“i just need to finish,” you reply, trying to stifle the lump in your throat.

he watches as you draw your laptop closer while blinking rapidly to chase away any tears.

you’ve always been one to persevere, which he greatly respects. but it also irritates him that at times, you don’t allow yourself to fully feel.

jungkook suppresses a groan as he watches you type something else into your search engine, briefly tilting his head up to the ceiling in frustration and closing his eyes to take a deep breath.

it can be hard, to watch those you love push themselves beyond their limit. he understands, knowing that he often puts you through the same thing.

you and him share an achilles heel of refusing to give up easily, which is both a blessing and a curse.

the sound of your fingers tapping on the keyboard snaps him out of his trance and he reopens his eyes, sneaking another glance over your shoulder.

he’s about to drop it altogether when he sees your bottom lip quiver, his breath hitching in his throat when the first tear makes it over your lash line.

“baby,” he utters softly, nearly tripping over the leg of the chair he pulls out from the table to sit beside you.

you can’t help but let out a throaty chuckle at his clumsiness, swiping the single tear from your cheek and trying to wave him off.

“i’m okay,” you sniffle, but jungkook just shakes his head in disbelief. he leans forward, balancing on his knees as he takes your fidgeting hands in his own, running his fingers gently along your knuckles.

“seriously, jungkook, i’m fine. stop making it bigger than it is,” you attempt to push him away, but he refuses to budge.

“stop making it smaller than it is!” he counters, voice raising slightly as his anger takes over.

he takes a breath, continuing in a softer voice.“baby, i’m not gonna stop until you let me in.”

his brows furrow in frustration, wide eyes pleading with you.

in the heat of the moment, you hate how intrusive he’s being. you hate that he sees you as his responsibility and that your struggles are ruining his day.

“jungkook, if i’m just a burden-“

“a burden?” he interrupts in disbelief, “you could never be a burden,” he reaches for your hand when you try to get up. “hey, all i ever want to do is help you, because i love you,” he stresses.

his words instantly calm your mounting emotions, preventing you from any more self sabotage.

“i love you,” he says again, “and i cannot sit here and watch you ruin yourself.”

you simply blink at him, the last of your resolve shattering when he starts to soothingly caress your arm with his warm palm.

even when you’re so difficult, he’s so unbelievably kind to you.

“please let yourself not be okay,” he begs, eyebrows pulling together, pained, as he watches you stifle a sob. “it’s so hard to watch you be so strong all the time,” he says, “please don’t shut me out.”

and just like that, your wall comes tumbling down.

jungkook’s emotions bubbling to the surface seem to be the final push for you to tip over the edge. tears now stream down your face, features crumbling as you weakly lift yourself from your chair.

jungkook’s arms reach out to pull you into him, intercepting your body as you launch yourself onto his lap. his lips press repeatedly to the side of your head as he wraps his arms around your stuttering back, squeezing you to him.

“let go, baby,” he says, feeling tears well up in his own eyes as you collapse in his arms, “just let go.”

broken sobs wrack your frame as you cling onto him, one of his hands securely holding the back of your head while the other runs up and down your spine.

the dam has finally broken, and its cathartic for both of you.

soothing words are spoken softly into your ear as your breaths begin to even out, your face finding solace in the crook of his neck.

after a few minutes, your cries quiet and the pool of tears starts to dry on his skin.

jungkook leans back to glance over your face, reaching up to swipe at the leftover tear trails on your cheeks with his thumb.

“feel a little lighter in here?” he inquires, dancing his fingers over your scalp as you lift your reddened eyes to lock with his.

“a little,” you sniff, leaning into his touch as he starts massaging the crown of your head.

“hm, good,” he murmurs, “we’re making progress then.”

wordlessly, you stare into his big brown irises, the whites of his eyes showing evidence of his own tears. despite this, his mouth quirks in a small smile, and the guilt from ten minutes ago consumes you.

“fuck, i’m so sorry,” your frown deepens, closing your eyes when his lips press to your temple, remaining against your heated skin. “i’m so sorry for lashing out at you, i’m just,” you sigh, “i’m just overwhelmed and,” you glance up in thought, “in my own head.”

“i understand, baby,” he soothes, warm eyes finding yours to show he’s being genuine. “it’s all gonna work out, i promise.”

you inhale and sit up straighter, cupping his cheeks as you position your face in front of his. you stare at each other for a moment before he cups your jaw, adoringly squishing your cheeks with his fingers.

jungkook laughs as you pucker your lips, sliding his hands down to rest under your jaw when you tilt your head to the side, pressing your mouth to his.

with each pass of his lips over yours, you feel the ache in your head lessen. your heart reaches out for him and squeezes him closer to you.

he hums as you pull back and immediately go in for more, taking turns capturing your bottom and top lip between his. you grip on tighter to him to momentarily stop the world from spinning around you.

breaking apart for air, jungkook giggles as you unattractively sniff with your full nose, your fingers absentmindedly playing with his hair.

“sexy, huh?” you raise a brow, and jungkook’s features warm when the sparkle returns to your eye.

“duh,” he rolls his eyes, and there’s a beat of comfortable silence as you both recover from your breakdown.

“i love you so much,” you murmur, “thank you for everything you do.”

“yah, kiss-ass,” he teases, his high-pitched laugh escaping his mouth when you pinch his side as punishment for his snark.

“ugh, nevermind,” you sigh as you stand up, and he smiles at you in return, holding onto your hand to help you back over into your chair.

“i love you more,” he sings, chortling as you squint your eyes at him in response.

you redirect your gaze back to your notebook, still looking tired but not as weary as you did before.

jungkook lifts himself to reassume his position from earlier and stands behind you, dropping his arms around your neck. you tilt your neck as he plants a kiss onto the top of your head.

sensing your reluctance to go back to work, he leans down further, his cheek pressing against yours. the gesture seems to melt you back into your chair as the both of you stare ahead at your laptop screen.

“okay,” he starts, understanding your process, “how about some tea to get you through this last part?”

he waits patiently as you think it over. his eyes travel from the screen to your features, staring at your lashes touching your cheek each time you blink.

there’s a hint of water clinging to your bottom lashes, and the sight makes his heart squeeze in his chest.

“yeah, actually,” you answer softly, gently craning your neck so that you can press your lips to his, kissing him one, two, three, four times.

“you’re the best boyfriend ever,” you whisper against his lips, some of the tension in your body already subsiding.

his cheeks go pink with your praise, dark eyes catching the dining room light as he puffs air out of his nostrils.

wordlessly, you let your head hang off the back of the chair, closing your eyes when jungkook’s hand comes to support the back of your head, dipping down to kiss you again.

his fingers rub soothing circles into your neck, causing an involuntary noise to rise up from your throat.

you break apart with a “tch,” noise, pouting when he pulls his arms from around you.

“nooo,” you try to grip onto his fingers, jungkook chuckling as he pokes your bottom lip back into place.

meeting your lips one last time, it takes everything in him to step away from you, pointing at your dimmed laptop screen.

“i’ll be right back,” he soothes, “and i promise i’ll sit here with you the whole time.”

you smile despite yourself, because jungkook is simply the light of your life.

“you better. you’re my emotional support human.”

#bts fanfiction #bts x reader #bts fluff #bts angst #bts comfort #bts reader insert #jungkook fanfiction #jungkook x reader #jungkook fluff #jungkook angst #jungkook comfort

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thedensworld · 10 months ago

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Alone at Night | K.Mg

Pairing: Mingyu x Reader

Genre: angst, fluff, established relationship, short!

Summary: Mingyu has no idea until he had to sleepover in your house because of the rain. In fact, it hurts him.

In the dimly lit room, the soft patter of rain against the window was the only sound, punctuated occasionally by a distant rumble of thunder. Mingyu shifted on the couch, glancing at the clock on the wall. 2 a.m. already. He hadn't planned on staying this late, but fate, it seemed, had other ideas.

As he nestled deeper under the cozy comforter you had provided, Mingyu couldn't help but smile, reminiscing about the evening that led to this unexpected slumber party. Your movie date had been nothing short of perfect – a delicious dinner cooked by your own hands followed by a marathon of films, laughter, and the warmth of your presence beside him.

But as the clock struck midnight, Mingyu had made a mental note to leave, not wanting to overstay his welcome or make things awkward. Yet, as if the universe conspired against his plans, the rain began to pour relentlessly, trapping him in your cozy abode for the night.

"Fourth date and already a sleepover," he mused to himself, a mixture of amusement and disbelief coloring his thoughts. Mingyu couldn't deny the flutter of excitement in his chest at the thought of spending more time with you, even if it was under somewhat unconventional circumstances.

Reflecting on how he had met you through a mutual friend, Mingyu couldn't help but marvel at the unexpected turn his life had taken. Your calm demeanor and quiet energy had drawn him in from the start, and what had begun as a simple friendship had blossomed into something deeper – something he couldn't quite put into words.

And when he finally mustered the courage to confess his feelings, Mingyu had braced himself for any outcome, never daring to hope that you might feel the same way. Your stoicism had kept him guessing, but your acceptance had filled him with a warmth he had never known before.

As he drifted off to sleep, cocooned in the comfort of your home and the promise of a new day with you, Mingyu couldn't help but feel grateful for the rain that had brought him here – and for the person who had stolen his heart in the most unexpected of ways.

In the midst of his own thoughts and worries, Mingyu couldn't shake the feeling of concern gnawing at him. He knew you had been through a lot lately – the setbacks at work, the financial burdens from family, the weight of responsibilities pressing down on your shoulders. Yet, you always seemed to carry yourself with such grace and composure, never letting on just how much you were struggling.

But as he lay awake on the couch, the sound of faint sobbing drifting through the stillness of the night shattered Mingyu's facade of calm. His heart clenched with a mixture of anguish and helplessness, realizing that it was you – the person he cared for deeply – who was silently bearing the weight of your own troubles.

With cautious steps, Mingyu approached your slightly ajar door, his ears straining to catch the sound of your stifled sobs. His hand hovered over the door, torn between respecting your privacy and wanting to offer whatever comfort he could.

Inside your room, you sat on the edge of your bed, shoulders trembling as you tried to contain the flood of emotions threatening to overwhelm you. Despite your best efforts to reassure Mingyu and everyone else that you were okay, the facade cracked in the solitude of the night, allowing the pent-up tears to finally spill over.

Mingyu's heart clenched at the sight of you on the bed, your body trembling with silent sobs. The realization that you had been crying alone, even with him just a room away, sent a pang of guilt coursing through him. What pain had you been concealing behind that stoic facade? The thought gnawed at him, filling him with a deep ache of concern for you.

Summoning his resolve, Mingyu softly knocked on your door, his hand lingering on the doorknob before gently pushing it open. The dim light of the night lamp cast a soft glow over the room as Mingyu stepped inside, his gaze drawn to your form on the bed.

"Do you need something, Mingyu?" Your voice, tinged with exhaustion and sadness, cut through the silence. You looked up at him, attempting to mask the vulnerability that lingered in your eyes, but Mingyu saw through the facade.

Without a word, he approached you, his heart heavy with the weight of your pain. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he reached out and switched on the night lamp, illuminating your tear-stained face. His hand moved to your cheek, gentle and tender as he wiped away the evidence of your tears.

In the quiet intimacy of the moment, Mingyu hummed softly, a soothing melody meant to offer comfort and solace. There were no words to express the depth of his concern for you, but in that simple gesture, he hoped you could feel his unwavering support and the love that overflowed in his heart.

"Mingyu..." Your voice quivered as you spoke his name, a mixture of relief and vulnerability laced in those two syllables.

"It's okay... You can cry..." Mingyu's voice was gentle, his words a soothing balm to your wounded soul. With a reassuring nod, he extended his hand, offering you the comfort and understanding you so desperately needed.

As you sat in front of him, the floodgates of emotion burst open, tears streaming down your cheeks unchecked. Mingyu's heart constricted at the sight of your raw pain, but he remained steadfast, his arms opening wide to envelop you in a warm embrace.

"Baby..." Mingyu's voice was tender, filled with a depth of emotion that spoke volumes. He pulled you closer, holding you tightly against his chest as you surrendered to your tears. Each sob wracked your body, but Mingyu held you with unwavering strength, his presence a beacon of solace in the darkness of your despair.

You cried harder, the weight of your burdens feeling momentarily lighter in Mingyu's embrace. His words of reassurance washed over you like a gentle wave, offering a glimmer of hope amidst the storm of your emotions.

"It's okay, you're doing great... I'm here." Mingyu's whispered words echoed in the stillness of the room, a promise of his unwavering support and unconditional love. And in that moment, surrounded by the warmth of his embrace, you knew that you were not alone – that no matter how heavy the burdens you carried, Mingyu would always be there to share the load.

Wrapped in the comforting cocoon of your embrace, Mingyu held you close, his arms a steady anchor amidst the storm of your emotions. He watched as your tears gradually subsided, your breathing slowing to a steady rhythm against his chest. With tender care, he brushed a stray strand of hair away from your face, his lips pressing a gentle kiss to the top of your head.

"Is it always like this? Every night?" Mingyu's voice was soft, tinged with concern, as he finally broached the subject that had been weighing on his mind.

You shook your head, the remnants of sadness still lingering in your eyes. "Sometimes it just hits randomly at night. Without a reason."

"This time too?" Mingyu's question was gentle, his gaze searching yours for any sign of reassurance.

You nodded, the weight of your admission hanging heavy in the air between you. But Mingyu didn't falter – instead, he pulled you closer, his touch a silent vow of unwavering support.

His hand found yours, fingers intertwining in a comforting gesture as he spoke, his voice filled with determination. "If this happens again, later... Call me. I'll be by your side, like this."

In that moment, surrounded by the warmth of Mingyu's love and the promise of his steadfast presence, you felt a glimmer of hope ignite within you. No matter how dark the night may seem, you knew that with Mingyu by your side, you would never have to face it alone.

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mydearestbeloved · 24 days ago

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Chapter 23 [Draft]

Sung Jinwoo/Trial Player!Reader

CW:

Inspired by @circeyoru ‘s “Future Power Couple”

[Masterlist🦋✨️]

“What’s with this traffic jam? It’s really backed up.” Jinwoo asked, his voice breaking the lull as he drummed his fingers lightly on the steering wheel. As the car inched forward at an agonizingly slow pace, he muttered something about taking the subway, eyes scanning the congested road ahead, a faint crease of irritation forming on his brow.

You glanced up from your musings, your elbow propped on the car door, chin resting in your palm. Your eyes were fixed on the distance, far past the endless rows of brake lights ahead—almost indifferent, as if the raving engines and honking vehicles just outside were nothing more than background noise.

“Maybe a gate popped up in the middle of the road?”

Jinwoo turned his head to you, giving you an incredulous look. His sharp stare lingered until you caught it out of the corner of your eye, remaining unfazed. “What?”

Before Jinwoo could respond, his phone buzzed to life, the name on the screen flashed: Chairman Go Gun-hee.. He answered, listened intently to the voice on the other end, and replied as necessary. The situation was, in fact, just as you had guessed—a gate had indeed materialized, right in the middle of the highway too, hence the massive traffic disruption.

After the call ended, Jinwoo turned back to you with a similar expression as before. The hint of amused resignation was new though.

“What?” you repeated, your voice carrying that deliberately lackluster touch of feigning innocence.

This time, instead of being interrupted in a timely-good manner, his silence was broken by a soft chuckle as he leaned back in his seat, his posture relaxed, as did the uptilt of his lips, despite the urgency of the situation.

After a beat, that easy smile was directed towards you. “You gonna come with?”

You tilted your head slightly, mimicking his casual demeanor but with an air of mockery that was all your own. “Depends. Let’s see what the system has to say.”

“So, not a no?” Jinwoo’s tone took a turn as he leaned closer, leaving no other way for you but to meet his eyes, his grin just as daring.

Perhaps reflex played a role when you raised your hand and planted it against his face before he could get too close, gently pushing him back with just enough pressure to send a clear message: Don’t push your luck. Jinwoo showed little resistance, the twinkle of mirth in the backdrop of grey peeking between your fingers unmistakable.

You dismissed how you could distinctly feel his mouth move as he played along with your antics. How the soft brushes of lips felt on the border of your palm and wrist, teetering so close to where one could feel vital signs through the skin.

“Shut up,” you grinned back, and the following vibrations on your hand, mimicking the act of chuckling, told you more than enough.

It was good to know that he was now comfortable enough around you to be like this.

“I’ll do a quick detour for our emergency preparation,” you added, finally pulling your hand back and breaking eye contact. Your gaze shifted out the window as if searching for something unseen. “I have a feeling it’s going to rain.”

Jinwoo raised a brow, stealing a glance at the sky through the windshield. The sun shone unobstructed, the horizon was clear, with no sign of rain clouds in sight. Still, he’d learned by now that your ‘feelings’ were rarely wrong.

Cryptic words and double meanings, he just had to figure them out—figure you out.

The game both of you had been playing since the very start.

How thrilling.

Jinwoo hummed, opting for another question, though it was one he already had a pretty good guess on the answer. His smile never left. “How many backups have you planned, really?”

“A lot.” —a simplistic answer that was just so you, flashing him a sweet smile of your own.

With that, your form began to shimmer, your edges dissolving into myriads of lights, the chimes of your butterflies filling the air.

Through the mirror of his iris, the beautiful fragments swirled. Jinwoo closed his eyes briefly as the luminous insects flitted past his face, bringing forth passing warmth against the skin.

“You go on ahead,”

When he opened them again, only a single butterfly remained where you once sat, its iridescent wings fluttering softly. It went to perch on his instinctively half-outstretched hand, and Jinwoo brought it closer, feeling the faint, ticklish brush of its wings on his lips.

I’ll find my way to you.

The butterfly dissolved into nothingness, yet he knew it was keeping him company, always, despite its lack of visibility.

He was not alone, not anymore.

Jinwoo leaned back in his seat, raking a hand through his hair as the corner of his mouth curved into a grin, lingering all the way as he made his way to the gate’s location.

If he had truly looked at himself in the rearview mirror at this moment, would the faint color of his cheeks and the creeping warmth had only been the effect of the rosy-hued sky and the golden glow of the setting sun?

Jinwoo muttered under his breath, though there was no mistaking the fondness in his every little action then.

“What a difficult woman.”

---

Jinwoo stood amidst the wild greens of the foliage; the air as ominous as ever if not more. The oppressive heat and humidity were immediately followed by the torrential downpour. The thick jungle surrounding him, water cascading down the leaves and pooling into muddy streams, and the dense magical energy crackling in the air all pointed to one thing.

“You know…” Jinwoo said to no one, his tone as flat as it was dry, despite him literally soaked from head to toe. “However I see it, this feels like a red gate.”

“I told you so,” your voice rang out light, and Jinwoo looked up to see you hovering in the air, donning your usual raid ensemble, your form bathed in faint iridescent white glow. The rain parted around you and the butterflies flitted, refracting light in a way that made Jinwoo feel like he was witnessing a scene from one of those vibrant stained-glass windows.

Divine—that word again.

Soft chimes mixing harmoniously with the rhythm of harsh pitter-patter. Despite his enhanced physique, the falling rain still dug uncomfortably into his skin, under the layer of wet fabric. But even so, he couldn’t look away.

As for you, for a moment, you entertained the idea of looking after a wet cat.

With a subtle motion of your hand, Jinwoo suddenly found himself enveloped in the same translucent glow and phantom warmth. The raindrops now bounced and slid off him harmlessly, though the protective barrier couldn’t undo the soaked clothes below.

“You’re a little late, don’t you think?” Jinwoo quipped, though there was no bite to his words.

Yeah—a sopping wet, fussy black cat.

“You seem fine enough,” you quipped back, starting to make your descent. “I’ll help you dry off once we’re out—shit!”

The next second, the world seemed to blur as the storm surged louder in your eardrums—a brief flicker caught Jinwoo’s attention before his instincts kicked in.

Time seemed to slow after—closer than either of you expected, stealing the air from your lungs, senses overwhelmed by proximity’s warmth. Dimly, you felt familiar, sturdy arms supporting you, and the scent of damp earth mixed with something distinctly him.

Déjà vu—and the disconcert of living through a cliché.

Chaotic fluttering, the butterflies’ notes twisted into a cacophony of delight, increasing in volume alongside heavy rain and thunder. Yet, all seem to blend into the background of mingling breaths, inches apart.

None spoke, eyes locked with another in a moment that felt stretched too long and too short all at once. Light danced in between, shadows fleeting across each other’s features.

Somewhere, amidst the cold shower and warm softness in his hold, Jinwoo felt a strange awareness settle within each heartbeat.

And then, the moment broke. The chimes quieted, and everything faded into the storm’s veil once more.

---

[A hunter is born to hunt.]

“So,” Jinwoo started, attention flicking between you and the battle up ahead. “you can teleport from outside now?” Intrigue flashed in his eyes, though his tone retained its usual calmness.

“…”

“(Name)?”

“…Yeah,” you finally replied. Distracted was an understatement of the nearly two decades you’d been thrown into this world. “The recent ascension automatically leveled up some skills. My teleportation works the same as before, but now it’s more… precise.”

“Precise?” Jinwoo’s brow arched in question.

“Mm-hmm. Visualizing the destination is no longer enough; I need to know the place like the back of my hand.” Your eyes followed a purple butterfly fluttering past his shoulders. “Being manually taxing is a recurring drawback to my powers, so I’m not too surprised. The good thing that came out of this is that there are less restrictions. Dungeons are basically another world altogether, but now I can go in and out even after the gates closed, granted I still have memory of the place and that nothing unusual happened. Still researching on that.”

“Bless my children, since I still need an ‘anchor’ for the first travel.” The butterfly joined the fray. “Under normal circumstances, they can travel on their own. But for traversing between realms? In case they’re not strong enough to withstand the force, they need to attach to someone who can cross to the other side. Once inside, that child can send me the specific ‘data’ via telepathy—the area’s distinct wavelength, for example.”

You made a light sweeping motion with your hand. “And voilà.”

A hunter’s foe isn’t limited to monsters.

Jinwoo hummed thoughtfully, his gaze sweeping across the battlefield. He watched his soldiers press forward; their footwork precise even on the rain-slick, muddy ground. The flitting butterflies wove among them as usual, shimmering beacons boosting any soldier in close range and playing with their food the enemies. What was unusual was the flashes of forms far too humanlike to be his shadows.

Jinwoo narrowed his eyes, studying the contrasting figures. Their movements were seamless, as if rehearsed, covering each other’s blind spots. As chaotic as these fights could get, there was an unmistakable rhythm to them. A Danse Macabre brought to life.

“They can fight too?” Jinwoo asked, his voice tinged with slight awe.

Following his line of sight, you smiled faintly. “Yes. At first, it was the adults’ initiative. I’m fine with them as they are, but my darlings wanted to make the most of it now that they can maintain corporeal forms without the hassle of constantly using hallucinations.” You nodded toward the entities in question. “Their skills heavily depend on what I’m capable of myself, since they weren’t initially designed for direct combat, but…” You tilted your head toward the nearest skirmish. “What can I say? Adaptation is one of our mottos.”

[A hunter must take care not to become the hunted.]

Jinwoo followed your gesture and saw Igris, his long sword cleaving through enemies with practiced ease. Covering his back stood a familiar elegant figure, crimson strands in a braid and wielding dual rapiers. She was as pristinely suited as the first time she introduced herself. The tailcoat, patterned like her wings, followed her movements fluidly, making her seem like she was dancing.

Hup!

Light on her feet, she launched herself in the air and struck. The thrust precise and deep despite how delicately thin the blade looked, evident by the fountains of blood erupting from her staggering victims before Igris followed up with swift decapitations. With how calm she looked at times, her eyes were another level of intense, like an undying flame.

She landed with a bow and—did the raining blood just turn into showering petals?!

“You’ve already met Red,” you said casually, though Jinwoo detected a hint of pride. “My right hand.”

Gaze lingering on the pair, Jinwoo was unsure what was more baffling: the eerie theatrics or how seamlessly Red fought alongside Igris without a single word exchanged.

His attention shifted to another figure, starkly different in demeanor and a paler complexion.

On top of her head were triangular-shaped ears blending into straight snowy-white locks. The color contrasted sharply against the battlefield’s murky tones, as did her pale blue eyes. Seemingly a staple to your children who gained a more tangible form, the black and white attire she wore was adorned with fluffs from neck to boots.

The situation can always reverse,

“That’s Blanche.” You chuckled softly seeing the girl reflexively nuzzle into her thick scarf, only for droopy eyes to narrow, clearly displeased with the wetness clinging to her usual comfort. Even her long fluffy tail wasn’t spared, slumping dejectedly in response.

Peeking out from the tufts of her of sleeves were clawed hands of clear ice, at least twice a normal sized hand. That same hand tore straight through an adversary’s chest. As the beast dangled from her grip, she flicked them off with ease to swipe at another incoming attackers.

What was interesting to Jinwoo was how the minion sent flying looked stiff. Only when Tank caught them with his mouth did Jinwoo have his answer. The chilling crunch when the shadow munched on them, how pieces of the body cracked like glass and fell off with no sign of the usual dripping warm liquid, suggested that they were frozen solid. It was a frigid carnage.

“She’s dozing off.” Jinwoo noted dryly as Blanche retracted her claws and leaned onto the massive ice bear, sinking into his wispy black fur.

“Leave my baby alone. It’s nearing her hibernation hour anyway.” You cooed in the pair’s direction, seeing that Tank decided to not disturb Blanche’s nap and just sat there, munching away at the frozen enemies she left behind.

“And when exactly is that?”

“Almost all the time.”

Jinwoo didn’t know if he wanted to laugh or sigh at you.

“You’re spoiling her.”

“Blanche always got her job done before going to sleep, so I see no problem.” You trailed off.

[And it’s the mark of the first-rate hunter to avoid becoming complacent.]

Jinwoo chose not to comment further. He followed your wandering eyes toward a blonde figure next. Hair tied in ponytail, she wielded a massive shield with an ease that belied its size, using it to batter enemies in a manner that seemed more recreational than necessary.

“There are two of them now.” Jinwoo deadpanned.

True to his words, it was quite a sight.

Iron was, unsurprisingly, doing what Iron did best: slamming down the blunt end of his battle axe on what appeared to be an enemy, a pretty much dead one. The blonde woman, with eyes resembling the sun, mimicked his actions with her shield and an almost childlike glee. The two were taking turns in smashing the unfortunate foe until it was simply unrecognizable.

“That’s Sol,” you said, sweatdropping. “She’s, well, energetic.”

Jinwoo sighed, and honestly, you couldn’t blame him.

“I can see that.”

“…Sol’s a good child.” You continued with a wry smile. “Just a curious spirit most of the time.”

“Right. And she follows Iron around because…?”

“She finds him amusing.”

“That sounds even worse somehow.”

You could only offer a helpless shrug.

The next child Jinwoo noticed was perched comfortably on Tusk’s shoulder, nonchalantly swinging her legs and humming a tune. Turquoise eyes glowed against dark bronze canvas, various runes of the same bluish-green circling her, and a tome floated by her side. Her hair was a striking red, blue, and the occasional hints of white and purple, shifting hues with every movement like a living aurora. Her ears were long and the tips pointed, Jinwoo noted.

Whether you hunt tens, or even hundreds, of monsters,

“That’s Neonie.” you introduced. “Abilitiy-wise, think of her as a living magical artifact.”

Each motion of the her fingers brought forth circles of magic, materializing across the battlefield. Glittering mist flowed out, a blanket of cloud around the High Orc Shaman and magic unit below, amplifying spells’ firepower, restoring mana, and decreasing casting cooldowns in a near constant cycle. Some smaller magic circles stationed strategically around the fog-affected areas automatically shot projectiles to melee foes closing in on the mages.

Jinwoo was squinting at this point. Mist aside, the output of spells back-to-back were blinding enough.

“Can we adjust the brightness?”

“Sure! When you managed to control your first instinct to not glare at my sorceress every time you see her, we’ll talk.”

“Huh?”

“Oh please, I saw how your face scrunched up seconds ago. I already made Baruka’s remains a stat boost for your dagger, give the guy a break.”

You rolled your eyes, though the twitch on your lips betrayed you when he made a face again.

A strong gust of wind swept past, ruffling your hairs and prompting you and Jinwoo to glance upward. Kaisel soared overhead, his massive wings stretching over the rain-drenched jungle below, cutting through the winds. Trailing close behind was what seemed like a flurry of butterflies in a weird formation, a blur of royal blue.

You whistled and the cluster halted in its flight, only then did Jinwoo could get a proper look at the silhouette. The most attention-grabbing feature was the pair of wings, flapping in brief intermissions to keep the bearer afloat. They weren’t the delicate blue and black structures patterned on her uniform; instead, there were layers of translucent feathers, matching the end of her trench coat. She had rich blue eyes; dark brown strands framed her face in a bun.

[You must hunt ceaselessly.]

“Jinwoo, meet Gale.” The aforementioned bowed to Jinwoo. “The best flyer of my butterflies.”

“And also,” Jinwoo barely had time to process this before his sharp ears caught a distinct metallic clack from above. His gaze snapped back to Gale—was that a minigun?!

“Our aerial support—”

“Everyone duck!”

The assault began, the shots ripped through the ranks of enemies below. Jinwoo’s caught another detail then: like the briefest projection, the feathers spread wide dispersed light in a way that momentarily resembled the intricate patterns of a butterfly. They flared, and from the 'eyes', beams of light shot downward, incinerating adversaries that got caught in its line, leaving charred remnants in her wake.

As the dust began to settle, Jinwoo quickly noted that his soldiers and your children remained unharmed, courtesy of Tusk’s and Neonie’s protective barrier that had shielded the allied forces nearest to the blasts. Iron and Sol too, raised their shield to protect the others nearest to them.

“…and sniper—”

BOOM!

Yeah, no.

The resulting shockwave left Jinwoo’s hair slightly disheveled, and he noted with some amusement that yours wasn’t spared either.

That was a fucking missile.

Again, none of his shadows nor your butterflies had been harmed. Gale’s actions might seem reckless, but, as far-fetched as it sounded, the attacks were isolated in a way, suggesting some level of careful handling and not just reckless abandon.

“I…” You looked dumbfounded if anything, mouth parting a little bit, and Jinwoo found it cute. At least that reaction was enough of a confirmation for him: you didn’t, in fact, planned that, not to this degree at the very least. Jinwoo reckoned Gale took some liberties, and it was just good bad timing on your part. “…I’ll speak to Gale on toning it down.”

“Good call.” Jinwoo chuckled.

You cleared your throat, a strange look of avoidance passed through your expression. “Well, that’s all of them that are present anyway”.

Even when you said that, Jinwoo’s gaze drifted past you, landing on the peculiar silver-haired figure standing still under the rain. She seemed wholly engrossed in her own world, her face tilted upward to let the water trail over her features. Her expression painstakingly crafted to exude pensiveness, it was as if she were playing out a dramatic scene in some high-budget movie—you know, where a character’s thoughts were spoken aloud by outside voice? Minus the pile of corpses beneath her heels of course.

“What is she doing?” Jinwoo finally asked, his tone edged with skepticism, finding it very hard not to be openly judgmental this time. Your lips twitched, unsure whether to laugh away the embarrassment like a maniac or dig yourself a hole and simply die with it.

[As that unknown presence does too.]

The King has no plan to stop his hunt—"Ouch!”

The woman in question abruptly yelped in pain and doubled over. Her hands flying to the top of her head where an angry red bump had formed. Her face scrunched up into a teary expression as yellowish-orange orbs turned to the crimson-haired figure now looming over her.

“What in Mother’s name was that for, Sist-AH! Ow…” Trick’s indignant protest was cut short as another sharp smack landed squarely on her head, resulting comically in a bump on the previous bump. Red stared down at her younger sibling, arms crossed, twin rapiers momentarily sheathed by her hips.

“Stop monologuing.” Despite how flatly the delivery was, each word was emphasized with a progressively terrifying glare that could have frozen a lesser soul.

Poor Trick got the heebie-jeebies. The adult silver butterfly pouted and whined, still clutching her head as she pointed to the air where intricate golden-white screen glitched to life. “They started it!”

[ :D ]

The red butterfly could care less.

“Get. To. Work,” With one last warning look, Red turned her back without waiting for a response. She strode back toward Igris, who had paused mid-swing to glance in her direction. The shadow knight tilted his head slightly, a silent inquiry.

Red’s expression softened in an instant, throwing her rapier to stab the battered magical beast, formerly twitching hand about to grab the shadow knight’s leg while he was distracted, now laid as limp as it was dead. “I’m alright, Sir Igris. Thank you. Let’s continue,” Her tone gentle and respectful. Igris gave a small, almost imperceptible nod before they resumed their rhythm.

Meanwhile, you pressed your fingers to your temple, trying to stave off the impending migraine while watching Trick sulking nearby at the slightest possible prospect of the older butterfly ignoring her. She shot a glare toward the hovering interface.

“(ಥ﹏ಥ) …Traitor.”

[ ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ ]

“Just ignore her.” You sighed, already too tired to deal with this today.

As if to prove your point, Beru chose that exact moment to land near with a thud that sent a wave of muddy water splashing in all directions, including Trick’s, who let out a hiss like a bristling feline. The former ant king let out some clicking noises.

“What are you doing?”

“Nun-ya.”

“What?”

“Nun-ya business.”

“Yeah,” Jinwoo followed your lead and turned away at the sparks practically flying between the two summons. “Let’s. Ignore them.”

Unfortunately for the several totem-masked monsters who thought they could take advantage of the apparent distraction, lunging toward the insect pair, they unknowingly only hastened their doom. With a snap of Trick’s fingers, the attackers froze mid-charge, consumed by sheer terror as they clutched at invisible wounds. It was borderline terrifying how convinced they were that they had already been slashed to pieces, only for Beru to tear through them for real a fraction of a second later.

“Kekeke. First to 30 wins?” Beru’s multifaceted eyes had a competitive glint in them aside from the bloodlust.

Trick shot back with an eerily wide grin, showcasing inhumanely sharp canines hidden below her usual mischievous smile.

“Now we’re talking!”

Gunshot pierced through a few masked foes in groups. The twin guns disappeared from slender hands just as fast as they appeared at the start of a different moveset from the humming butterfly.

An up wave of her hands was followed by several foes cut vertically from the bottom—

“One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four.”

Up, down, cross, side, up…!

—and the rest was as follows.

Only after the motions slowed down did the rain and blood shine light to the glinting threads wrapped around Trick’s fingers into various directions, including the beasts that got shot at the start, limp bodies serving as effective anchors.

Trick turned around, hands now on her hips and sticking out her tongue, only to yelp when she saw a body thrown in her direction. Reflexively cutting it in half with her threads revealed the sight of Beru’s smug look not far off, already done with his fair share of enemies.

“Watch it, you—”

“kEKEKEKEKE!”

“That girl sure knows how to hold a grudge.”

“The pot calling the kettle black. Beru also indulged her too much.”

You and Jinwoo locked eyes in a silent battle of wills for a few seconds before bursting into laughter.

As the laughter died down and the two forces tore into the enemy ranks, that strange feeling from the very first start of this battle settled in you again—the sense of being out of place. Should you feel weirded out that you could only bring yourself to comment on it now?

“Jinwoo.”

“Hmm?”

“Put me down,” you said bluntly, your tone carefully devoid of emotion as you tried to school your expression despite the steady warmth creeping up your neck. And your back. And the back of your thighs—whatever parts of your body that were touching Jinwoo’s right now!

“…”

“…Please?”

“No.”

This man! He purposely waited for you to do that only to reject you, didn’t he?

Jinwoo looked at you with a maddeningly fake smile of innocence, his tone leaving no room for debate. His arms around you didn’t loosen; if anything, they tightened when you started wriggling around, successfully securing you in place.

Sure, it was not the first time he had done this. At the end of your second trip to the demon castle, Jinwoo only let your feet touch the ground after the two of you arrived at the hospital, where you could just sit and rest safely as he tended to his mother. You admit that you were exhausted, very well out of your mind, and thus you were thankful to him—back then.

This is different!

“I can walk on my own—”

“Nope.”

…What a mean man.

From the moment your children had somehow hijacked your landing to now, Jinwoo had been carrying you in classic bridal style, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

Oh, you could feel his muscles—and you almost leaned closer in an attempt to hide your growing fluster.

You don’t even know where to put your hands. Sure, you wrapped your arms around him, once, to steady yourself right after you fell into his arms—God, that sounds so cheesy. Right now, though, you were awkwardly fiddling with your fingers on your lap. This dilemma came to a much quicker end than the ongoing mental gymnastics in your mind when Jinwoo started walking, where you instinctively held onto his shoulder, simultaneously giving up on the matter of being carried like some damsel in distress until who knew when.

Even as the path ahead cleared—his shadow soldiers bowing deeply on either side and your butterflies fluttering like honor guards—Jinwoo showed no intention of putting you down. And you have to admit, there was undeniable comfort in the way he held you, grounding and unwavering just like his presence.

You almost forgot that you were inside a dungeon.

When did you start being this comfortable around Jinwoo?

Was it before meeting Norma Selner, the very first-time trust between you felt balanced in scale? Was it while on your first trip to the demon castle, when you brought yourself to hold his hand to calm him in what otherwise would be a precarious situation? Or was it further back?

How romantic!

Isn’t this basically ‘walking down the aisle’?

Mother—

You winced as the telepathic chatter from your children filled your mind, their voices buzzing with excitement and a variety of commentaries.

Love?

To a man who deserved everything and more? When you couldn’t even be sure of your place in this world, how could you do that to him? To the man who [̴]̷[̵]̶[̵]̶[̴]̴[̷]̵ you?

…?

Jinwoo [̸̦̄́̈́]̶̲̭͐̂̕[̸̭̄͘]̴̼͖̌͒̽[̵̲̝͂]̷̘͂͊͒[̵̙̦̬̒̈́̽]̸̥̈́͆[̶̙͊]̸̨͎͎̏ you.

???

[̴̨͚̥̤͖̣͍̱̥̥̃̽̂͂́̕]̷̞͋̀̍̆[̸̥̀̊̀]̴͍̑̇[̸̺̬̲͉̯̱̭̥̖͔͊̉̓]̸̧̡̛̳̰̬͉̰̗̮͙̄[̴̺̳̮͇͕̩̌̅͜]̴̢̥̭̮̩͉̜̼̽́͠[̶͚̓͂̃̿̇̃̀͝͝]̶̡̨̰̙͔͚̀͜ͅ—!

W-What is…my memories—

“-me)…(Name)!”

You jolted. For a few moments, the only thing you could see was grey.

“I knew it, you’re—”

“I’m fine, Jinwoo. And stop making that face.”

“What—”

“It doesn’t suit you.”

“Oi—”

Before he could let out another syllable, you circled your arms around him and buried your face on his shoulder. You were well-aware of how his muscles tensed then, how his breath hitched when yours warmed his neck, and how he shivered when you played with his hair at the base with your fingers. It was a sly move on your part, to distract him like this.

How far can I go? What a dangerous thought.

It was impossible not to notice the signs, how confusing they all were.

It might have been a stretch to assume, might even be delusional, but unless it was normal behavior of this time and age to kiss the back of another’s hand—other than family’s—you doubted you read the situation too far in that case. The gesture might be normal occurrences for affectionate people, and you wouldn’t claim to know how Jinwoo would be if he had someone who truly accompanied him on his journey, step by step. What you did know was that Jinwoo showed that he cared, less with words, more through actions.

So, what did his actions so far told you?

For a lone wolf such as he, Jinwoo had been quite... tactile. You doubted he would be to just anyone.

Comfort, maybe?

Which led to the next question: you no longer fit in the category of ‘just anyone’ to him, weren’t you? After all, it was one of the many possibilities you had entertained, especially when he didn’t leave you much of a choice but to stay close.

Trust?

“…” You pursed your lips.

Or something else?

Y̸̦̖͓͛o̵͕̦͎͆̃ụ̶͎̗̒̈́ ̴̻̩̳̏ d̶̩̉i̸͓̭͒̕d̴͙͑̍ň̶̝͍͠'̶̧̙̍t̴̹̓ ̸͓͍̎̎ŕ̴̲̩͕̅͋e̴͔̾m̷̦̞͗e̴̢̥̗͑̔m̵͖̳̄b̴͈͎͋̌e̵̡͔̜̍̅̈́r̶̨̳̜̂̉͑ ̶̘̒͘i̶̡̖͘̚f̴̺̳̎̀ ̶͍͍͔̐̏́ý̵͍̳͐͝ò̸̦͇͑̀u̷̧͌ e̶̜͓͗̕v̵̬͈̱̀̃̌ḛ̸̛͋͘r̴̺̀̋ ̷̛͙͕̻̑͆h̶͇̻͛̕å̸͙͖̭͒d̵͕̮̃ ̴̰̒̍a̷̻̘͌̂ ̸̹̔͑͜ͅl̴͙̈́ô̶̹̣̼v̴̘̪̄̂e̵̡̓͘͝ṟ̴̽́̏ ̴̺̌̑̐b̵̫͕̦̄̇e̴͔̅̀͐f̶̰̍o̷̩̐͝r̷̘̥̒̔e̶͚̦͒.̸̪̝̉͊͝

You were a fan of Jinwoo, yes, just one of the many, and a hopeless romantic to boot, considering the amount of romance genres you consumed in your free time up till now. It was a good thing if he actually found some comfort in you, God knew this man deserved more, so you didn’t really mind the hand-holding, hugging, and overall proximity. If you were being honest, every time he sought you out, it never failed to make you feel giddy—too giddy.

It was hard to turn a blind eye to the changes.

How could you describe this? Feverish, fuzzy, and your stomach did the thing? It felt too textbook copy-paste—everything was—which was fitting, considering your situation. But, simply ‘feeling’ it was not enough. What an excuse that was, when there was not yet definitive evidence to support your claims. Would you stoop that low?

In any case, you were threading onto treacherous grounds.

But—

You tightened your hold on Jinwoo, hiding yourself from the world.

System, can I afford to indulge myself?

[ … ]

“Enjoying yourself?” Jinwoo asked, and while you couldn’t see it, you just knew that he had to be smirking.

Look who’s talking. That question could apply to him too.

You mumbled something incoherent into his shoulder, and Jinwoo tilted his head, his smile widening. “What was that?”

You didn’t feel like gracing him with the answer he wanted this time. Instead, you nuzzled further into him, your head bumping against his chin from below, and your lips inches away from his Adam’s apple.

Just as you predicted again, Jinwoo shut his mouth pretty quick.

Revenge sure tasted sweet, but you decided that you would spare him some mercy. After all, you were still thankful for the distraction he provided, knowingly or not.

A small smile bloomed against his shoulder.

For all your children’s teasing, a small part of you couldn’t help but agree: this moment, despite every absurdity that surrounded it, was undeniably romantic.

Just this once.

Behind the curtain of the rainy dungeon, you just hoped this wouldn’t become a habit.

End Note:

Unfinished Draft of [30/11/2024] -

Dear [Trial Player]'s Readers,

Happy New Year! 🎉

First, I’d like to apologize for not posting this chapter on New Year's Eve as planned. Time was tighter than I expected, and honestly, this chapter could have been better. My apologies for that. If you have any questions, feedbacks, & comments, feel free to send them here or send in an ask—I may be slow, but I’ll do my best to respond as soon as I can! ❤️

With this chapter, we’ve officially reached the end of Season 1 of the Manhwa. Huzzah! 🎊

This chapter is a whirlwind, I admit. There’s a lot happening, such as: new revelations, developments, and information; foreshadowing and scattered implications; and official introductions to several new characters—the mysterious [???], also known as the [Children of 'Trial Player']! I have used these twenty-ish chapters so far to 'set up the stage', all will be revealed in the events of Season 2 of the Manhwa, so stay tuned! 🦋✨️

I’ll be returning to college for exams starting on January 6th, which will keep me busy for about three weeks. As such, there won’t be any major updates to this story until late January or early February. In the meantime, I’ll try to answer the asks you all have already sent to my inbox. Thank you so much for your patience and for showing interest in this work—I truly appreciate it. I apologize for the late responds in advance. 🙏

Thank you for all your support so far, everyone! 💖

#solo leveling imagine #solo leveling #only i level up #solo leveling x reader #sung jin woo x reader #sung jinwoo x reader #jinwoo sung x reader #sung jinwoo #solo leveling jinwoo #sung jin woo #solo leveling fanfic #fanfiction #fanfic #reader insert #x reader #fem reader #female reader

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anjelicawrites · 3 months ago

Text

Paring: Armand x reader

Synopsis: you're sitting in a pub, you start drawing the mysterious stranger sitting not far away from you. When he discovers you, you don’t realize you’ve picked the attention of a dangerous creature.

Warnings: reference to past injury, self doubt, allusion to past trauma.

A/N: reader is AFAB. They/them pronouns used.

The wind is howling outside the thick windows of the pub, dark clouds promising heavy rain and violent waves against the jagged coast not too far from the narrow road where the pub is built. The fire is roaring in the huge hearth, shadowed by too many people huddling there to nurse their drinks; the lights are dim against the old wooden panels, giving the overcrowded room a homely air.

You beer sits next to the small case full of your pencils as you draw in the dim lights of the overcrowded room.

Your head sits lightly on your free hand as the other rushes to finish the quick sketch you’re working on, before your, unintentional, muse decides to leave; you’re hoping the promise of heavy rain will convince the man to stay a little longer. Who knows if he will or he will try his luck, now that the wind has picked up even more violently.

You focus again on the black lines on the sheet of paper, finishing the outline to start working on the elegant sweater he’s wearing; you’re no expert but it looks expensive, and warm, and soft. A real nightmare to draw using only a charcoal pencil, since you are planning to add colors and you don’t want to put too many shadows that aren’t there.

“It has been a long time since anyone ever painted me. I was given the chance to pose back then, for hours, I have to admit.”

The soft voice makes you lift your head in surprise; dimly you think that there is an accent you can’t truly pinpoint, his words almost neutral in their intonation.

“It’s actually a drawing, not a painting.”

You want to drown in your own sweater at how stupid your response sounds.

“May I sit?”

You can’t see his eyes, hidden behind his wraparounds sunglasses and his expression is hard to read: you’d hate to cause a scene, not everyone appreciates being portrayed in secret.

“Please, do.”

Carefully you move your beer more on the side of the small round table, the too long sleeve of your sweater uncovering partially the black burn glove on your left hand, despite you racing to hide it again.

The man sits down, gracefully and only now you notice he has no drink with him: he must have entered the pub to escape the oncoming storm. He only lays an elegant cigarette case on the battered table, the ornate, intricate designs catch your attention from the rowdy crowd of the pub.

He is stunningly beautiful, but this you realized when you eyes had landed on him, whilst you were sipping your beer and wondering what, or who, you could sketch to pass the time; what truly draw your attention was his aura, so calm, yet it gave you the sense of someone who keeps a tight lid on their emotions, like a summer evening when you know it’s going to rain soon.

“Are you an artist?”

Again, his soft voice drags you back from your thoughts, the musicality of it makes you want to listen to him reading his grocery shop list, if that meant just hearing it.

“No, not really, it’s just a hobby.”

“You have a great deal of sketches in your book, and in your little case.”

Almost on instinct you want to grab your work and curl around it in protection; it’s the gut reaction of a second, you aren’t in that position anymore, this man will not tear your works into shreds for no reason.

“It’s something I haven’t done for a while and then I had decided to pick it up again. We can’t only work all the time, can’t we? We need to treat ourselves.” You say with a smile.

“I am acquainted with that meme.”

It surprises you that he feels the need to convey his knowledge: what a strange man.

“This is my way to treat myself.”

“By drawing unsuspecting strangers?”

There’s no heath in his words, no rage, perhaps a bit of curiosity.

“By drawing what, or who, catches my eyes.” You answer, parroting his words. “I love to hang somewhere and just let my eyes wander. I can stop sketching you, if you want, I know it’s disconcerting for some people.”

You can truly feel the weight of his gaze, still hidden by the sunglasses, even now that the pub is bathed in the dark light from outside. This stranger is not simply looking at you, you feel as if he’s taking you apart to catalog every single piece of yourself he can find, like an entomologist does with a pinned butterfly.

You know you shouldn't feel so calm under his scrutiny, that you should bid your farewell and go home, but you can’t help yourself: you want this stranger to keep looking at you like he would the pieces of a puzzle he desperately needs to put together. No matter how dangerous the consequences.

A shiver runs down the damaged nerves on your left arm, and you decide to ignore the warning.

“Why should you? You’re very talented.”

All of his nervousness now shows itself in the way his index fingers fiddles with the cigarette case, his hidden gaze fixed upon you.

“It’s a shame it’s not possible to smoke in public places such as this one anymore.”

How strange! You think. The law passed here in 2004 and he talks about it as if he had experienced how it was before. He can’t be that old!

He seems to have made his mind as his hand gently grasps the sunglasses, as if ready to remove them.

“Please, don’t!” In your haste you lift your hand, almost to stop him. “The most interesting part is to guess and imagine. Do keep wearing them.”

There’s a slew of small expressions playing on his face, all to hide his surprise and, perhaps, curiosity?

You grab the charcoal pencil in a tighter grip and go back to your work, losing yourself in the quick, almost nervous motions of your hand on the paper: you don’t know why you feel like you have to rush, to capture the fleeting essence of this nameless man, but you do.

With every ticking second you believe you’re going to lose the feeble hold you have on the ideas crowding your mind, with every stroke you fear you’re drifting far away from the first image of sadness and loneliness that lighted up in your mind, as soon as you saw him, sitting alone in the pub, under lights that enhanced his otherworldly beauty, the very thing that set him apart from all the other men present.

You only need to glance at him sparsely, to make sure to capture the texture of his hair and the folds of his sweater, the long lines of his fingers against the battered wood of the table.

Only when you’re finished, you realize you have been holding your breathe for most of the sketching and you have to force yourself to take a big gulp of air, before turning your sketchbook to him, while grabbing your beer again.

You’re learning not to be shy, when it comes to your creations, to share them with the world, to accept the criticism and the compliments; not now. Now you’re crawling out of your shell again, trying to draw while being filled with self doubts and hating every single piece you created, those past months disappearing in your mind, along with the strength you built for yourself.

His piercing gaze is now turned on your drawing, that analytical stare that cut you into layers and layers, now is doing the same to your work, and to himself: you’d do anything to know his thoughts, now that his face shows nothing.

Under the stillness a maelstrom rages. The man looking back at him from the page is a knot of everything he’s always felt and never told. Through the fast strokes of his eyes, he can see all his hardships, all he’s done and lost for centuries, pain and desperation, in a way a simple mirror would never show him: how a simple mortal like you could read him so deeply after staring at him, comes as a surprise. You’re nothing but a child, compared to him, yet you have the understanding of a much older person, as if you’ve experienced the depths of hell, only to expose it in your art, and to him.

It takes a lot of restrain for Armand to show nothing of his internal turmoil: it has been so long since someone managed to pin him down so precisely, so perfectly, he has to fight the instinct to stand up and storm out, away from you and your keen eyes; he wonders if you have done the same to other people, read them so perfectly and bluntly putting them in front of their own soul, like his fledgling had done to him. Do you know how dangerous you are? Do you have any inkling of how easily you could destroy a person’s life? Would you do that in the name of the truth?

“It’s awful, isn’t it? It’s not worth keeping.”

You reach with your good hand to slip the sketchbook away from his grasp and he stops you with elegant fingers on your wrist. His grasp is not strong, it doesn’t hurt, but holds a secret strength you can feel traveling up your arm and makes you shiver with the need for more.

“It’s beautiful.” He says, after a heartbeat, still holding you in place. “The one who painted me wasn’t as good an artist as you are, he lacked the depth you hold.”

His face is now turned back to you, his hidden, piercing stare focused on your features, analyzing you again, as if wanting to explore the hidden crevices of your soul.

“Thank you.” You stammer. “I’m glad you like it.”

Still, he says nothing, making you feel self-conscious of your own existence in this small pub on the coast.

“Would it be too forward of me to ask you to gift me this sketch?”

You’re too dazzled yourself to notice the small quiver in his soft voice.

“Oh! That’s the first time anyone has asked me that.”

Right now the people around you two don’t exist, nor is the wind beating down the old windows and stones of the building. There are no passing cars outside, nor are the waves crashing against the high cliffs, just a handful of miles from here.

“I thought I wanted to color it.”

“I think it’s perfect this way.”

He knows a finished work will incinerate him on the spot, because he will never be able not to stare at it, at himself, like Dorian Gray, to face all his centuries on this Earth.

“You’re too good to me. It’s really just a small sketch.”

“You’re selling yourself short. You have something many professional artists lack.”

When his big hand releases yours, the spell you were under breaks and all the sounds around you attack you again, adding to the fog you’re still feeling clouding your brain.

Almost through a dream, you take the sketchbook from his hand and cut the page off with the small pocket knife you keep in your pouch to sharpen some of your thicker pencils.

“It’s yours, my personal thank you for appreciating my work.”

His fingers touch yours again on the thin piece of paper and only now you notice how cold they are, despite the heath in the pub.

“Thank you.” There’s no calculation in his words, he feels real gratitude, the feeling burning brightly in the scorched desert of his soul. “I don’t even know your name.”

When you answer his question, you feel like he’s got a hold on your soul, like in the stories about the fairies.

“My name is Armand.”

A french name to someone who hasn’t a french accent, but nowadays people call their children anything, you think.

“Are you here on holiday?”

You can see the cheeky way his mouth turns when he smiles at your question.

“I thought I was simply passing through, but I am fascinated with how this area has changed, I think I am going to stay, for a while.”

You almost don’t notice the way he refers to this place as if he’s visited it years and years ago. Almost.

“Do you have somewhere to carry it? My sketch I mean. It has just started to rain.”

“Unfortunately I don’t. And I don’t wish to ruin it.”

“Here, use this!”

With much too haste, you empty the case where you carry your bigger pieces and hand it over to him.

“I can’t possibly accept it. Your other works will be destroyed by the rain.”

“I can roll them up and keep them in my bag, it’s big enough. Besides, that one is fresh, if you do the same to it, it will get ruined.”

“I still need to refund you yours.”

“There’s no need. If you’re staying, you’ll give it back whenever you can. There aren’t many meeting places here.”

The old trick always works: you are all so easy to manipulate.

“Then I shall give it back as soon is possible.”

His hands don’t tremble when they take the case from you, touching the sketch again doesn’t burn him the same way the first time did, but he knows he’s still affected, and needs to understand why.

“Regrettably, I need to go now.”

He lies, a part of him wants to stay to take your brain apart until he knows all the ways the mechanisms work there, but it’s too early for that.

“It’s raining pretty hard.”

“My car is parked nearby and your lovely sketch is safe.”

He doesn’t have a car, but he has faster means of transportation that defy such a small thing as rain.

Before you can stand up, he gracefully takes your hand to kiss the palm, ignoring the smudges of charcoal. He does it the classy way: his lips don’t touch your skin.

“Thank you again for your gift.”

“No, thank you for humoring me. I hope I’ll see you soon!”

Oh, he thinks, you have no idea how ‘soon’ can become ‘now’.

#armand x reader #armand x y/n #iwtv #armand #amc iwtv #interview with the vampire #amc interview with the vampire #the vampire armand

227 notes · View notes

theonottsbxtch · 3 months ago

Note

HEAR ME OUT 🙂 charles x pianist!reader where he’s like writing/composing a new ep and his producer is like “omg you should totally do a duet with (reader) 🥰” and uh yeah just anything related to that

i can already envision a scene where charles spends most of his time in the dark alone in the studio with his piano but reader is ofc there…

go for any trope you want 🙈

MY MUSE | CL16

an: im sorry this is so long istart writing and then i can't stop. btw i want everyone to know that i was listening to that's not me by skepta and jme while writing this. completely different vibes. SEND MORE REQUESTS IM BORED HOUSESITTING FOR THREE WEEKS

wc: 7.8k

dedicated to @iamred-iamyellow & @iimplicitt

The studio was thick with the scent of aged leather and dust, the faint glow of a single, dimmed lamp casting long shadows across the hardwood floors. Charles sat hunched over the grand piano, its black lacquer surface reflecting the soft light in fractured shards. His fingers hovered above the ivory keys, trembling with a kind of frustrated anticipation, but no sound came. The room seemed to echo with a deafening silence, broken only by the faint ticking of the clock on the far wall—an incessant reminder of time slipping away.

He had been here for days, isolated from the outside world during the off season. The once-comforting walls, lined with shelves of dog-eared books and musical scores, now felt like the confines of a cage. His last piece had been a masterpiece—a soaring composition that had flowed from him like water, effortless and pure. It was the kind of music that haunted you long after it ended, the kind that etched itself into the soul of anyone who heard it. But now, the notes eluded him.

Charles ran his fingers through his dark, curly hair and let out a low sigh. There was a pressure building in his chest, like a wound slowly tightening, pulling him apart. For the past week, he had been locked in this room, trying to capture the essence of something even greater than the last, but all he had managed to conjure was noise—fragments of half-formed melodies that crumbled before they could take shape.

He stood abruptly, the sudden movement causing the papers on top of his piano to rustle, brittle with neglect. The room was stifling; the air was thick with the remnants of burnt-out candles and sleepless nights. He paced to the window, pulling the curtains aside to reveal the darkened Maranello streets below, slick with the remnants of a recent rain. The city outside moved on, indifferent to his struggle, its distant hum a reminder that time had no patience for his creative paralysis.

He pressed his forehead against the cold glass, his breath fogging it up in shallow bursts. What was missing? What had he lost in the months since his last piece? It felt like chasing shadows, reaching for something just out of grasp. Every melody he tried to shape slipped through his fingers like grains of sand, and the harder he tried to hold onto it, the faster it dissolved.

The clock struck three in the morning, the chime echoing through the stillness of the room. Another night wasted. Another night consumed by the weight of his own expectations. He turned back to the piano, his eyes heavy with fatigue but burning with a quiet, desperate need. He couldn’t leave. Not yet. Not without something to show for the hours he’d lost.

With a sigh that felt like surrender, Charles sat back down at the piano, his fingers hovering over the keys once more. He could feel the cold beneath his skin, the way the silence seemed to press in around him. His hands shook, not with nervousness, but with exhaustion.

And then, in the quiet, a single note broke the silence.

It wasn’t beautiful. It wasn’t the haunting, ethereal sound he had been searching for. But it was something.

His gaze fell to the pile of sheet music he had scribbled on throughout the night. Inked lines of failed ideas, crossed out again and again. With a final resigned sigh, he stood up, the bench scraping the floor, the sound too loud in the empty space. He began to gather his things, shoving crumpled papers into his bag alongside notebooks, headphones, and his laptop. The familiar weight of them didn’t bring comfort; instead, they felt like reminders of the failure he was starting to carry with him. This was meant to be a hobby but it was haunting his every move.

As he turned to leave, keys jangling in his hand, a soft sound reached his ears—a distant, faint melody. He paused, his hand hovering over the light switch, ears straining to catch it. It was coming from down the hallway, barely perceptible at first, but unmistakable—a piano, its notes drifting through the quiet night like a whisper.

Charles hesitated for a moment, then slipped into the hallway, drawn toward the sound. He moved slowly, the dark corridor seeming endless, the music growing clearer with every step. It was beautiful—achingly so. Each note was delicate yet certain, as though whoever was playing knew exactly what they wanted to say. The melody swirled and climbed, creating something ethereal, something that made his chest tighten in a way he hadn’t felt in weeks.

He stopped outside one of the smaller practice rooms, the door slightly ajar, a soft glow of light spilling from within. The music filled the narrow hallway, surrounding him, pulling him in. He stood there for a long moment, his heart beating a little faster, a strange mix of awe and envy twisting inside him. This was what he had been trying to create—the same kind of raw emotion, the beauty that lingered long after the sound faded.

But it wasn’t his.

Charles leaned against the wall, just out of sight, listening as the music flowed through the cracks in the door. The player inside didn’t falter, didn’t stop to wrestle with the notes. It was effortless, pure. He didn’t dare move, didn’t dare interrupt, afraid the spell would be broken if the other person realised they had an audience.

The melody soared, and for a brief moment, Charles closed his eyes, letting himself be swept up in it. It reminded him of why he had started this in the first place—of the nights when music had been his refuge, when it had felt like an escape, not a burden. He could feel the heaviness in his chest easing, just slightly, as the music wound its way through the silence.

But as beautiful as it was, it also stung. Whoever was playing had found what he had been searching for all this time—something he had lost.

The music came to a soft, gentle end, the final notes lingering in the air like a breath held too long. Charles stood there for a moment longer, still leaning against the doorframe, waiting for something—he didn’t know what.

When the quiet finally settled again, he stepped away from the door, not daring to break the fragile stillness with the creak of the floorboards. He glanced back one last time, his fingers curling tight around the strap of his bag. For a moment, he considered knocking, stepping inside to see the person who had played with such grace. But something held him back.

Instead, he turned and walked down the hallway, the echo of that haunting melody still playing in his head long after the door to the studio clicked shut behind him.

His following morning came in fragments—a bleary haze of sunlight filtering through half-closed blinds, the distant hum of traffic muffled by the walls of his apartment. Charles stirred, his body sluggish and heavy with the weight of too little sleep. He lay there for a long moment, eyes closed, trying to hold onto the remnants of the dream he couldn’t quite remember. But it wasn’t a dream that lingered in his mind.

It was the melody.

That same haunting, angelic piano from last night, curling through his thoughts like a whisper. He could still hear it—those delicate notes weaving together, the way the melody had seemed so effortless, so perfect. It had been circling his mind from the moment he left the studio. Now, it played softly in the background of his thoughts, no matter how hard he tried to push it away.

Charles groaned, rolling out of bed and dragging himself into the shower. The hot water did little to shake the fatigue that clung to him, nor did it drown out the persistent tune echoing in his head. His mind kept returning to the small, dimly lit room where the mystery pianist had been, to the way her fingers had danced across the keys as though they had always belonged there.

He towel-dried his hair, staring at his reflection in the foggy mirror. Dark circles under his eyes, a face hollowed by days of restless nights and creative frustration. He had some sort of media training today—something important. A meeting he couldn’t afford to drift through half-awake. But even as he dressed, pulling on his usual team shirt and straightening the collar, his thoughts were elsewhere.

The city outside was awake, the streets buzzing with life as he made his way through the crisp morning air to the Ferrari HQ. His coffee sat untouched in his hand, the steam rising in lazy spirals, but he barely noticed. The melody from last night played on an endless loop in his head, the memory of it clinging to him like a ghost he couldn’t shake.

The office was a blur of familiar faces, bright smiles, and too much energy for this early in the day. Charles moved through it all, barely fully acknowledging Carlos, the world around him dull and muffled. The media manager was already waiting when he arrived, tapping impatiently on the table as Charles sat down for their first meeting.

But even as they discussed plans, upcoming shoots, and expectations for both his and Carlos’ media presence, Charles wasn’t fully there. He nodded in the right places, offered half-hearted responses, but his mind kept wandering back to that melody. The notes haunted him, pulling his focus away from everything else, as though they held the answer to something he was desperate to grasp.

“Charles, are you listening?” Carlos’ voice snapped him back to the present.

“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbled, though his eyes betrayed him. He scribbled something on the notepad in front of him, though the lines didn’t form words—just scattered shapes, like the music notes he couldn’t get out of his head.

The meetings dragged on. Through every discussion, every pitch and presentation, Charles felt the same distraction pulling him away. He couldn’t let it go. The melody. It had stirred something in him—a frustration, yes, but also a strange kind of inspiration. There was something there, something unfinished, and it gnawed at him.

By the time the last meeting ended, Charles felt hollowed out. He hadn’t contributed anything meaningful to the discussions, not really. His mind had been elsewhere the entire day, replaying those fleeting notes over and over again. It was maddening.

He needed to know. Needed to find out who had played it, and why that music—the music he hadn’t written—felt so much like it belonged to him.

Without thinking, Charles pulled out his phone and dialled his producer’s number, pacing back and forth in the hallway outside the conference room as it rang. It was late afternoon now, the sky outside tinged with fading light. He knew he should be focusing on his own work, or on getting back to the studio, but the compulsion to solve this mystery was stronger than his exhaustion.

The line clicked, and his producer’s voice crackled on the other end. “Charles, hey. What’s up?”

Charles leaned against the window, his forehead pressed to the cool glass. “I need to ask you something,” he said, his voice low, edged with impatience. “Last night, around 3 a.m., there was someone in one of the smaller studios, playing piano. Do you know who it was?”

There was a pause on the other end, the faint sound of papers shuffling. “3 a.m.? You sure?”

“I’m sure,” Charles replied, closing his eyes. The melody drifted back into his mind, as clear as if he were still sitting outside the door, listening. “It was… incredible. I couldn’t stop listening. I need to know who it was.”

Another pause, then a small chuckle from his producer. “Ah, that must’ve been the student. Yeah, she’s been coming in late at night to practise. Studies music at the university downtown. Doesn’t perform much, though—mostly keeps to herself.”

Charles’s heart skipped a beat. The name felt unfamiliar, but it already held a weight to it, like it was connected to something he hadn’t yet fully understood.

“She doesn’t perform?” he asked, brow furrowing. It seemed impossible—someone with that much talent, hiding in the shadows.

“Nah,” his producer continued, “she’s a bit under the radar. Not really into publishing or performing her work, but, man, she’s got something special. I didn’t realise you’d heard her.”

Charles was silent for a moment, processing the information. The melody. He could see it now—something just out of reach, like the missing piece of a puzzle he hadn’t realised he was trying to solve.

“You know,” his producer said, his tone shifting slightly, “you’ve been stuck for a while, Charles. Maybe you should try working with her. See what happens. It might help you find what you’re looking for.”

Charles swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. The thought of it—composing with someone else, with her—made something stir inside him. Could it be the answer to breaking through this creative silence he’d been drowning in?

“I’ll think about it,” he muttered, though the decision was already forming in his mind.

As he hung up the phone, the melody returned, softer this time, but still persistent. And now, it wasn’t just haunting him—it was pulling him forward.

_________________

The studio felt different tonight, as though it had shifted in his absence. The air was cooler, the lights dimmer, casting long, quiet shadows over the floorboards. Charles stood in the hallway again, just as he had the night before, but this time his heart beat with something more than exhaustion or frustration. There was an anticipation simmering in his chest, a tension just beneath the surface.

He hadn’t come to compose tonight. Not really. He had come for the music. Her music.

The name felt strange on his lips, unfamiliar, yet full of significance. He didn’t know her, had never spoken to her, but her music had already gotten under his skin. It haunted him still, drifting through his mind in fragments even after the long day of meetings, pulling him back here.

He moved quietly down the hallway, the same path he had taken last night, his shoes barely making a sound against the worn floor. As he neared the smaller practice room, the faint sound of the piano floated toward him, delicate and clear, weaving through the quiet.

There it was again—the same effortless, angelic melody that had captivated him before. But now, listening to it a second time, Charles felt something deeper stirring. The way she played was different tonight, more intimate somehow, as if the music had softened, becoming something even more personal. He stopped outside the door, just as he had before, leaning against the wall and closing his eyes.

For a long moment, he simply listened. The notes seemed to dance in the air, spinning and intertwining, building toward something both beautiful and fragile. It was mesmerising.

But then, the music stopped. Abruptly.

Charles’s eyes snapped open, his pulse quickening in the sudden silence. Before he could move, a voice broke through the quiet, soft but teasing.

“Mama always said it’s not nice to lurk.”

His breath caught in his throat. For a second, he didn’t move, caught off guard. The door was still ajar, the light spilling into the hallway, and from inside, he could make out the silhouette of someone sitting at the piano, her back turned to him. She hadn’t looked up, but she knew. She had known he was there the whole time.

Heat crept up his neck, but before he could stammer out an apology, she spoke again.

“You coming in, or are you planning to stay out there all night?”

Her tone was light, amused even, but it was an invitation all the same. Charles hesitated for a heartbeat longer, his hand tightening around the strap of his bag. Then, without thinking, he stepped forward, pushing the door open a little wider.

The room was small and softly lit, just as he remembered, the grand piano dominating the space. She sat at it, her posture relaxed, fingers still resting lightly on the keys. She turned her head slightly as he entered, giving him the faintest glimpse of a smile.

“Sorry,” he said quietly, feeling a bit ridiculous for standing outside like that. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You didn’t.” She shifted on the bench, making space beside her. “Come on, sit.”

Charles’s throat tightened, but he nodded and moved toward the piano, his steps feeling oddly tentative. He hesitated for a second when he reached her, unsure if he should really be sitting so close. The bench was narrow, and he could already feel the warmth of her presence.

She looked up at him with raised eyebrows. “I don’t bite.”

With a small chuckle, he slid onto the stool beside her, the space between them barely a few inches. It was strange, this closeness��to sit here with someone he didn’t know, yet felt connected to through the music that had haunted him for days. Their shoulders brushed lightly as he settled in, and for a moment, the silence between them felt heavy, loaded with expectation.

She glanced at him, her eyes glinting with something unreadable. Then, without a word, she placed her hands back on the piano, her fingers moving over the keys with an effortless grace. The melody returned, soft and slow, and Charles felt his breath catch in his chest again. It was different this time—gentler, more deliberate, as though she was playing just for him.

The room seemed to shrink around them, the air thick with the quiet intimacy of the music. He watched her hands move, the way her fingers danced across the keys with the kind of fluidity that only came from years of dedication. The melody wound its way through the air, filling the small space between them, and Charles found himself leaning in, just slightly, drawn to the sound and to her.

“You play like it’s the easiest thing in the world,” he murmured, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

She smiled, a soft, almost secretive smile. “It’s never easy,” she said, her voice low, her eyes still on the piano. “It just looks that way.”

She played a few more notes, then paused, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. “What about you? You’ve been in the studio night after night. What’s haunting you?”

Charles let out a breath he didn’t realise he had been holding. “I’ve been stuck,” he admitted, his voice quieter than he intended. “It feels like everything I try to create falls apart. Nothing compares to what I’ve done before.”

She didn’t respond right away. Instead, she played another soft chord, the sound hanging in the air between them.

“Music’s strange like that,” she said after a moment, her tone thoughtful. “It comes and goes. Sometimes it’s easy, other times… it slips through your fingers.”

Charles nodded, feeling the weight of her words. He had been trying so hard to force the music out, to create something that could match his last piece, but all it had done was elude him.

The girl beside him shifted slightly, her shoulder brushing his. “Here,” she said, moving her hands off the keys. “Play something.”

“What?”

“Anything,” she replied, her eyes meeting his for the first time fully. There was a challenge in them, but also an understanding. “Show me what you’ve got.”

Charles swallowed, feeling a sudden surge of nerves. But her gaze was steady, encouraging, and without thinking too much about it, he let his hands find their way to the keys. The notes that came out weren’t perfect—they were hesitant, half-formed. But they were honest. He played softly, the melody faltering at times, but it was real.

She listened, her head slightly tilted as she watched his fingers move. Then, without warning, she joined him, her hands moving gracefully beside his, adding harmonies to the melody he had started. The sound shifted, growing fuller, more complete. The music filled the room, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Charles didn’t feel the weight of his failure pressing down on him.

Together, they played, their hands moving across the keys in tandem, creating something new. Something neither of them could have done alone.

When the last note finally faded into the quiet, Charles sat back, his heart pounding. She turned to him, her eyes soft and knowing.

“See?” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s easier when you’re not alone.”

For a moment, they sat in the quiet, the echo of their shared melody lingering in the air like the last breath of a long-forgotten song. Charles stared at the keys, feeling the warmth of the music still buzzing in his fingertips. He hadn’t felt like this in weeks—maybe longer. There was something about the way she played, the way her music had melded so effortlessly with his, that made the creative block he’d been wrestling with seem almost insignificant.

He turned to look at her, realising for the first time how close they were, their shoulders still brushing lightly. Her eyes were fixed on the piano, her fingers resting gently on the keys, as though she was waiting for the next melody to arrive. Her presence, though quiet and composed, carried an intensity that matched the music she played—an unspoken understanding of the way music could consume you, take you apart, and put you back together.

“That was…” Charles began, but the words caught in his throat.

“Different?” she offered, a slight smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

“Yeah.” He let out another breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. “It felt… easier. Like it wasn’t something I had to force.”

She tilted her head slightly, her gaze thoughtful. “Music isn’t something you’re supposed to wrestle with. It’s like water—it flows when you stop trying to hold onto it so tightly.” She shifted her hands off the keys and folded them in her lap, her eyes now fully on him. “You’ve been pushing too hard. I could hear it.”

Her words were soft, but they carried something that made Charles pause. He had been pushing—straining against the silence, desperate to capture a piece of the magic he’d once had. Every night in the studio had been a battle, and he hadn’t realised until now that the real fight was with himself.

“You’re right,” he admitted, running a hand through his hair. “I’ve been trying so hard to top what I did last time that I forgot why I was doing it in the first place.”

She leaned back slightly, still watching him, her expression unreadable. “What was your last piece?” she asked, her voice curious but not probing.

Charles hesitated. The memory of his last composition—an orchestral piece that had been his most successful work to date—felt distant now, like it belonged to someone else. It had been raw, emotional, inspired by something deeply personal, but the success that followed had overshadowed the joy he’d felt when he created it. Ever since then, he’d been chasing that same feeling, trying to recreate the magic, only to fall short.

“It was…” He trailed off, searching for the right words. “Something personal. It came easily back then. But now it feels like I’m trying to catch lightning in a bottle, and I’m just… stuck.”

She nodded, her fingers idly tracing patterns on the piano’s surface. “I get that. Sometimes the more you want something, the harder it is to find. That’s why I don’t perform much.” She smiled faintly, almost to herself. “There’s less pressure when no one’s watching.”

Charles studied her for a moment, sensing the layers beneath her calm demeanour. She spoke with such ease about the creative process, but there was an edge of vulnerability there too, a reluctance to expose too much of herself to the world.

“Why don’t you perform?” he asked, curious now. “I mean, with the way you play, you could easily—”

“Because I don’t need to,” she interrupted, her tone gentle but firm. “The music is for me. It’s not about the audience. It’s about…” She hesitated, searching for the right words. “It’s about connecting with something deeper, something that doesn’t care about applause or recognition.”

Her words hung in the air between them, and Charles found himself nodding slowly, understanding exactly what she meant. In a way, she had found a kind of freedom he had lost along the way.

“That’s why you play at night,” he said, more a statement than a question. “When no one’s around. It’s like…” He trailed off, trying to find the right analogy, “…the world doesn’t exist.”

She smiled at that, a real one this time, her eyes brightening just a little. “Exactly. It’s easier to lose yourself when there’s no one expecting anything from you.”

Charles sat back, processing her words. For so long, he had been weighed down by expectations—his own, his producer’s, the fans—and it had drained him. Maybe that was the problem. He had been writing for others, forgetting that the music had always been something he did for himself first. Something he loved.

She nudged him lightly with her shoulder, breaking his thoughts. “You know,” she said, a playful lilt in her voice, “you could try playing like no one’s watching. Even if they are.”

He turned to her, raising an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” she said, leaning in just a bit, “you’re too worried about what people think of your music. But here”—she motioned to the piano in front of them—“there’s no audience. Just us. So why not stop thinking so much and just… play?”

Charles blinked, the simplicity of her suggestion hitting him harder than it should have. She made it sound so easy, but maybe that was the point. Maybe it was supposed to be easy.

Before he could respond, she slid her fingers back onto the keys, playing a few soft chords that hummed through the air like the beginning of something new. Then she glanced sideways at him, a small, teasing smile tugging at her lips. “Come on. Share the bench again. Let’s make something together.”

A spark of excitement flared in his chest. Without another word, Charles moved closer, their knees brushing as they both settled into position, fingers poised over the keys. This time, he wasn’t overthinking it. He wasn’t wrestling with the music. He was just… there.

She started first, her melody soft and fluid, and Charles followed, instinctively matching her rhythm, letting their sounds merge and flow together. The music wasn’t perfect—it stuttered at times, shifted unexpectedly—but it was alive. It had a pulse. It breathed with them.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Charles wasn’t haunted by the silence. He wasn’t weighed down by the pressure of creating something great. He was just… playing. Creating. Feeling the music as it moved through him, through them both.

As their hands danced over the keys, weaving together something raw and beautiful, he realised something that felt both terrifying and thrilling: maybe this was what he had been missing. Not perfection. Not even recognition. Just the simple, undeniable joy of creating with someone who understood. Someone who could make the music feel real again.

When the last note faded into the quiet, Charles turned to her, his heart still racing.

“I think,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper, “I need to stop chasing what I’ve already done and start finding something new.”

She nodded, her eyes bright and knowing. “And maybe,” she said, her voice equally quiet, “we can find it together.”

The last note lingered in the air between them, and Charles felt something warm and alive settle in his chest. The music they had made together had been unlike anything he’d played in so long—imperfect, yes, but honest. Real. The creative block that had suffocated him for weeks was finally gone, or at least, it felt that way in this fleeting moment of clarity.

She glanced at him, her smile soft but distant. She seemed different now, as though the music had taken something from her as well. Before Charles could say anything, she pushed herself up from the piano bench, her fingers lingering on the edge of the keys for just a second longer than necessary.

"I've got to go."

Her words were quiet, almost an afterthought, and they hit him with an unexpected force. She didn’t give him time to respond, to ask anything, to even say goodbye. She simply gathered her bag and moved toward the door, her steps quick and purposeful.

“Wait—” Charles started, rising halfway from the bench, but it was too late.

She turned to him for a brief moment, a smile that was part mystery, part something he couldn’t quite read crossing her lips. “Don’t stop playing, tesoro (treasure)” she said softly. “You’re closer than you think.”

And then, before he could find his voice, she was gone, the door clicking shut behind her with an eerie finality.

Charles stood frozen for a few long moments, staring at the door. His mind raced. He didn’t have her number. He didn’t know where she lived, where she studied, or how to reach her. She had slipped away like a melody in the night, as effortlessly as she’d come into his life.

With a sigh, he sank back onto the piano bench, running his hands through his hair. The room felt strangely empty without her, the space they had shared now echoing with the silence she left behind. But something inside him had shifted. The music they’d created still hummed in his veins, and the weight of doubt that had plagued him for so long felt lighter. Almost like it was dissolving, piece by piece.

He placed his hands on the keys, the cool touch of ivory grounding him, and began to play.

At first, the melody was slow, almost tentative. It mirrored the notes they’d played together, but now it began to morph into something new, something entirely his own. As his fingers moved, the music unfolded naturally, effortlessly. It was as though every piece of frustration, every sleepless night, every failed attempt to capture the right sound was now fueling something greater. Something real.

The notes swelled and cascaded, filling the room with a rich, haunting melody that seemed to flow directly from his soul. It was raw, brimming with emotion—a reflection of everything he had felt, everything he had fought against. But now, there was no more fighting. The music came freely, weaving together in ways that felt effortless and inevitable.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Charles wasn’t thinking. He wasn’t chasing perfection or wrestling with expectations. He was simply… playing. The music poured out of him like a long-held breath, each note sharper, more vivid than the last. The emotions he had buried—frustration, longing, even joy—flooded into the sound, and it consumed him.

His hands moved faster now, the melody becoming more urgent, more intense. He didn’t know where it was going, but he didn’t care. It wasn’t about the destination. It was about this—this pure, unfiltered moment of creation.

And then, without warning, a tear slipped down his cheek.

Charles barely noticed it at first, too wrapped up in the music, but soon another tear followed. And another. He wasn’t sobbing—there was no sadness in it. Instead, it was an overwhelming sense of release, of joy, of finally breaking through. The music swelled, the room vibrating with sound, and Charles felt it wash over him. A catharsis he hadn’t known he needed.

When he hit the final chord, it echoed through the room, ringing out long after his fingers had stilled. The silence that followed was profound, heavy with the weight of everything he had just poured into the keys.

Charles sat there, hands trembling slightly, staring at the piano in disbelief. A shaky laugh escaped his throat, followed by a deep, breathless exhale. He had done it. He had finally played something worth keeping.

No—it was more than that. He had played one of the best pieces of his life.

For a long while, he just sat there, his hands resting in his lap, feeling the weight of what he had just created. Tears still clung to his lashes, but his chest felt light—lighter than it had in months. Maybe years.

He wasn’t just crying because of the music. He was crying because, for the first time in a long time, he was truly happy.

Charles leaned forward, resting his forehead against the cool wood of the piano, letting the last remnants of tension drain from him. His breath was steady now, calm. The room was bathed in a kind of quiet peace he hadn’t known in so long. He had no idea where the girl had gone, or if he’d ever see her again. But somehow, it didn’t matter.

The music was enough.

What he didn’t know—what he couldn’t have known—was that she hadn’t really left. Not entirely.

Outside the door, hidden in the shadows of the hallway, she stood, her back pressed against the wall. She had stopped as soon as she’d heard the first notes drift through the air, her hand hovering over the door handle but never turning it.

She had listened. Every note, every chord, every emotion Charles had poured into the piano, she had felt it too. Her heart had raced with his, her breath had caught in her throat when she’d heard the moment he broke through the wall he had been fighting against.

She smiled softly to herself, her hand finally dropping to her side as the last note of Charles’s masterpiece echoed through the studio. She had heard something in his playing tonight that she hadn’t expected. Something raw and powerful.

She turned to leave, her steps soft on the floor, leaving the sound of his triumph behind. Maybe she would come back one day, maybe not. But she knew this much—he didn’t need her anymore.

He had found his music again. And that, in itself, was enough.

As she disappeared into the night, Charles remained at the piano, still catching his breath, unaware of the quiet presence that had stayed with him until the very end.

The following days felt surreal, like a dream Charles was reluctant to wake from. After that night in the studio with the girl, his life had been interrupted by a trip to Silverstone to try out the tyres for the new season. The track buzzed with its usual energy, but no matter where he wandered, Charles’s thoughts always drifted back to her and the music they’d played together.

He had left the studio that night haunted by the memory of her delicate touch on the keys, the way their melodies had intertwined as though they’d been waiting for each other all along. He carried it with him over to England, through busy track meets and silent hotel rooms. Late at night, when sleep wouldn’t come, he would close his eyes and hear her music, as if it had lodged itself permanently in his mind.

It wasn’t just the music, though. It was her—the quiet way she had smiled at him, the lightness in her voice when she teased him, the sense of understanding that had passed between them without needing to be spoken.

Now, as Charles stepped back into the familiar silence of the studio late at night right off the plane, he felt a quiet anticipation coiled tightly in his chest. The lights were dim, the air cool and still, and for a moment, it felt like time had paused. The room was empty, and there was no trace of her—no soft melody floating through the air, no sound of delicate fingers dancing across the keys.

Disappointment stirred, settling somewhere deep. He’d been hoping, perhaps foolishly, that she’d be here. That they could pick up where they’d left off. He made his way to the piano, where the polished surface glinted in the low light, as inviting as ever.

And then he saw it—a small note left on the piano bench. His pulse quickened as he unfolded it, her handwriting instantly recognizable, though scrawled in that same casual, hurried way:

"Play with your heart, tesoro."

A soft smile tugged at his lips. The simplicity of the message was so very her. It was a whisper, a reminder of what mattered. A push, gentle but certain.

Charles set the note aside and sat down on the bench, the studio eerily quiet around him. For a moment, he just sat there, the weight of the piano keys beneath his fingers, the faint memory of their music hovering in the air. Then, without thinking too much, he began to play.

The melody started slow, almost hesitant, each note like a thought he hadn’t quite formed yet. But as he played, the music unfolded into something deeper, something more intimate. It wasn’t complicated or grand—it didn’t need to be. It was soft, heartfelt, like a quiet conversation spoken in a language only they understood.

He let go of the pressure, the constant need to craft something perfect, and instead just let the music be what it was—a reflection of what he felt, of what had been buried deep inside him since he’d met her. The music filled the room, curling into the corners like a secret. And for the first time in what felt like months, he felt at peace.

As the last notes lingered in the air, a soft sound broke the quiet. Applause—light, slow, and warm.

Charles turned, startled, and there she was, standing in the doorway, her silhouette framed by the dim light from the hallway. She was watching him, her hands clasped softly in front of her, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. Her eyes sparkled with something tender, something familiar. She’d been listening, perhaps the whole time.

“I didn’t hear you come in,” Charles murmured, his voice softer than the room itself.

She took a few quiet steps toward him, her gaze never leaving his. “I didn’t want to interrupt,” she said gently, her smile deepening. “It was beautiful.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The room felt suspended in a kind of stillness, the last remnants of his melody hanging between them, but no words were needed to fill the quiet. She came closer, and Charles shifted slightly on the bench, instinctively making space for her. She sat beside him, their shoulders brushing softly in the small space, the warmth of her presence settling something inside him.

“Play it again,” she whispered, her voice low, like a secret shared just between them.

He hesitated for a second, but then his fingers found their way back to the keys, this time slower, more deliberate. The music that spilled out was softer now, more intimate, as if shaped by the quiet weight of her sitting beside him. She watched as his hands moved, her gaze gentle, and as he played, the world outside seemed to melt away, leaving just the two of them and the music between them.

After a few moments, her fingers joined his, their hands moving together over the keys with a quiet ease. Her touch was so light, so effortless, and the sound they created was simple yet achingly beautiful—a melody that spoke of longing and connection, of words unspoken but deeply felt. There was no rush, no urgency in the way they played, only a slow unfolding of something real and fragile.

Charles stole a glance at her, his heart tightening. There was something unspoken in the air, something that went beyond the music they shared. He could feel it in the way she leaned in ever so slightly, the way her breath seemed to sync with his, the soft, steady rhythm of their playing.

When the last note faded into the stillness, neither of them moved. They sat there, shoulders barely touching, the silence around them thick with the weight of everything unsaid. Slowly, she turned her head toward him, her eyes soft, her smile quiet but full of meaning.

“You played with your heart,” she whispered, her words echoing the note she had left for him.

Charles’s throat tightened, the room suddenly feeling too small, too full of everything he hadn’t yet said. He turned toward her, his voice catching in his chest as he whispered back, “You make it easier.”

Her smile deepened, and for a moment, there was only the soft rise and fall of their breathing, the music they had created still lingering in the air around them. It felt like something had shifted between them, like a door had been opened that couldn’t easily be closed again.

And as they sat there, side by side on the piano bench, Charles realised that the silence no longer felt heavy. It felt full—of possibility, of something quiet and beautiful, waiting patiently to be discovered.

Together.

Charles’s heart raced, the air between them thick with anticipation. They sat in a charged stillness, so close their breaths seemed to mingle. The soft light of the studio flickered gently against her face, casting shadows that made her seem almost otherworldly. Her lips parted, just slightly, as if waiting for something—an unspoken invitation.

Before he could think too much about it, before doubt could creep in, Charles leaned in.

At first, it was tentative—a brush of lips so light it felt like it might disappear if he wasn’t careful. He kissed her softly, testing the moment, unsure if he was crossing some unseen line. But then she responded, her lips pressing back against his with the same quiet hunger he hadn’t realised was burning between them all along.

The kiss deepened, their soft breaths mingling in the quiet. A slow, intoxicating warmth spread through Charles’s chest, pulling him further in. He cupped her face gently with his hand, his thumb brushing against her cheek as their lips moved together, tentative but growing bolder with each passing second. Her hand found his, her fingers slipping between his, and she pulled him closer, as though the space between them had become unbearable.

Suddenly, the kiss wasn’t soft anymore—it became something more urgent, more passionate, the weight of everything they hadn’t said spilling over into the kiss. Charles felt his pulse quicken, his mind lost in the warmth and closeness of her. He slid his hand to the back of her neck, pulling her in deeper, their lips moving together in a rhythm that felt as natural as the music they had created moments ago.

She shifted slightly on the bench, her body pressing closer to his, and the heat between them grew. The world outside seemed to vanish, leaving only the two of them in the dim, quiet studio, the echoes of their kiss the only sound. The softness of her touch, the taste of her lips—it was all intoxicating, a crescendo building within him.

Charles could feel his heart pounding in his chest, and he didn’t want it to stop. He could have stayed in that moment forever, lost in the intensity of her kiss, in the way her hands tangled in his hair, in the way she fit so perfectly against him.

But then, as though sensing they were both on the edge of something overwhelming, Charles pulled back just slightly, his lips still lingering close to hers, their breaths mingling in the stillness. They were both breathing harder, and for a moment, neither spoke.

Her eyes fluttered open, her gaze locking with his, wide and full of something unspoken. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips slightly swollen, and Charles had to fight the urge to pull her back into another kiss.

“Tesoro” she whispered, her voice soft and a little breathless, as though she couldn’t quite find the words.

He smiled gently, his thumb brushing over her lips before he let his hand fall away, resting on the piano between them. His heart still raced, but there was something peaceful now, something right. He hadn’t felt this in so long—this connection, this ease.

“I need to thank you, angioletto ” Charles murmured, his voice low and full of emotion.

“For what?” she asked, her eyes searching his, a quiet vulnerability in her gaze.

“For inspiring this,” he said, his words soft but heavy with meaning. “For inspiring me.” He gestured toward the piano, where the notes of their shared music still seemed to hover in the air between them. “That song we played together… I never would have found it without you.”

Her lips parted, a soft smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, but her eyes shimmered with something deeper, something that mirrored what Charles was feeling.

“You’ve helped me more than you know,” he continued, his voice barely above a whisper. “Before you, I was stuck. I couldn’t write, couldn’t feel the music anymore. But playing with you—it’s like something clicked. You brought it back.”

She looked at him for a long moment, her smile growing, but there was a quiet tenderness in her expression, as if she understood all the things he wasn’t saying. Slowly, she leaned in, resting her forehead gently against his, and they stayed like that, breathing each other in, the world softening around them.

“I’m glad I could help,” she whispered, her voice a soft caress against his skin.

Charles closed his eyes, letting the moment settle between them, the weight of her words sinking in. He had been searching for something—chasing it endlessly, driving himself to exhaustion in its pursuit. But sitting here, with her, with the music they had created still vibrating in the air, he realised he had already found it.

It wasn’t just the music. It was her. She had become his muse in more ways than one.

He pulled back slightly to meet her gaze once more, his eyes searching hers for a long moment. And then, without another word, he kissed her again—slowly, tenderly this time. It was a kiss filled not with urgency, but with gratitude and something deeper, something unspoken but undeniable.

And in that kiss, Charles knew he wasn’t just thanking her for the music. He was thanking her for being the spark that had reignited something inside him, for being the light in a place that had felt dark for so long.

When their lips finally parted, he rested his forehead against hers once more, the two of them still breathing each other in, their hearts in sync. The studio was quiet now, but it wasn’t empty. The music they had shared—the connection they had formed—lingered in the air like a promise.

And for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, Charles felt whole.

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#f1 #f1 imagine #f1 fanfic #f1 smau #charles leclerc x female reader #charles leclerc angst #charles leclerc x you #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc fanfic #original character #formula one x reader #ferrari formula one #ferrari formula 1 #ferrari #charles leclerc #logan sargeant #williams racing #carlos sainz #teacher au

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endereies · 3 months ago

Text

SOAKED THROUGH - MS

No Nut November - Day 6

NNN Masterlist...

-➤ Matt finds you outside, watching the rain and he decides to have fun with you

The last week had consisted of awful weather. Rain spluttered from the sky at almost every hour like clockwork. It hammered down on each of the windows, smashing against the glass harshly. The surrounding trees constantly ad their leaves dropping with the weight of the water droplets. The clouds were dark against the night sky that was dotted with stars. The orange glow of the street lights made it seem inviting.

That’s how you found yourself leaning against the door frame of your backdoor. You were protected by the overhang that allowed you to stand there without getting wet. The occasional drop that got pushed by the wind splashed against the soft material of your pyjamas. You hadn’t felt it, not enough for it to bother you.

The rain always reminded you of home. Whenever the rain lasted all day, your family would wind up together playing games and simply bonding. As you grew older, those moments came heard to come by. No one lived in the same house anymore, they had families, jobs. You weren’t going to blame anyone for life getting in the way, except life itself. Years went by without the rain providing comfort, unless it came from the ghosted memories.

The doorframe was lined with metal that sent a shiver down through your body when your skin touched it without warning. Somehow in the harshest of weather you found beauty in it. The cobwebs were covered in dew drops, plants and wildlife refreshed in the needed water. The way you’d find the odd light shine so perfectly as to create a rainbow shine through the water. It was something you could admire for yours.

Hours had lengthened into the night and by now it was early morning. When Matt shifted in search of you, he failed to find you along side him. The sheets were cold, your absence had existed a while. It wasn’t often you’d leave the room, for a drink, the bathroom. But never for that long. He grew curious, almost worried. He abandoned the covers from on top of him, grabbing a nearby shirt to trap his remaining heat. He didn’t care how he looked, he was more concerned about you. That was until he felt the chill from the backdoor, following with the sight of you against it. He heard the murmur of a small tune that stemmed from your phone next to you.

“Baby? What are you doing up…” His words slightly slurred with fatigue. It was audibly deeper with a rasp but nothing that didn’t scare you.

“Matt…sorry. Did I wake you?” He quickly shaked his head, drawing himself next to you. You leant into his touch, his warm palms contradicting the cold morning.

He pulled you into his warm embrace, burying his head into your neck, surrounded by your familiar scent. It was obvious he was weary from freshly awakening but the comfort of you next to him wasn’t something he was going to deny. “What are you doing here, aren’t you cold?”

“Not really” You offered him an innocent smile, one that turned into admiration when you stared at the rain once more.

“It’s really coming down, huh?” His breathe fanned your skin.

“It’s beautiful though. Isn’t it.” You mused, your eyes fixed on how the rain glistened in the outdoor lighting.

Matt’s attention was then drawn to the music that filled the silence. The melody was calming, soothing. “What are you listening to?” Before you could answer, he picked up your phone to see the beginning of a ‘Cigarettes After Sex’ to start playing. It was recognisable and he smiled at the familiarity. He watched as your hips swayed to the music, something you must’ve picked up subconsciously. The phone returned to its original place on the kitchen side.

He couldn’t help but find it captivating, the way your body so smoothly swayed to the song. His eyes lingered on you, taking in the small details. Your hair, your lips, the way your cheeks slightly redden in the slight cold.

He pulled away from you and took this as chance to stand outside the door, barely under the overhang.

“Matt?” You couldn’t inquire anymore before he spoke again. “Dance with me? Please.”

His hand reached out towards you, and you couldn’t help but give in to his infectious smile. It wasn’t practical, both of you weren’t in suitable clothing and with your feet against the concrete it was guaranteed that you’d get cold. Yet you couldn’t find it in yourself to care and before you knew it, your hand laid in yours.

A smirk covered his face as he pulled you towards him. Your hand landed on his chest, and he extended his other hand above your heads. With a flick of his wrist, you took it as a sign to spin against him, the twirl making your hair push out. The rain had immediately impacted you both and it was quick to see droplets fall down his face.

He brought you closer to him after you spun, your noses barely touching as the rain fell between you, the feeling of wet clothing stronger by far.

A stroke of air forces from your nose as you lower and shake your head. “This is stupid…” You chuckled slightly at the fact you two were awkwardly dancing in the middle of a storm.

“So? I’d rather be stupid with you.”

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eclipsedechoesofmywords · 6 months ago

Text

"Do You Want to Dance Too?"

[Bucky Barnes x fem!reader]

Masterlist

Summary: After a very rare date with your boyfriend, it starts to rain and you two find yourselves stuck in a cafe with no way to get home without being soaked.

Warnings: none! Just fluff

Word Count: 1.1k words

(A/n: First attempt at a fanfic. I thought about this when I was trying to sleep and I really wanted to write it down.)

You curse under your breath as James and you quickly run to the small cafe at the end of the empty street. The rain started just a few moments ago, so it wasn't bad now, but you had a feeling it would only get worse.

You finally make it through the door, only slightly wet.

"Nice end to the day," he mumbles, clearly unhappy.

You sigh and take a seat at your usual table when Ella, a good friend of yours, pops up behind the counter.

"Well, this is a surprise," the barista says. "Thought I was finally going to be able to go through the whole day without you showing up."

"Ha ha," you muse, "Get us some hot chocolate."

She rolls her eyes but goes to make the order nonetheless.

James takes a seat next to you, glaring out the window as if that would stop the rain. The rain didn't take kindly to that as it starts a downpour, confirming your earlier suspicion.

He grumbles, and you take his hand in yours.

"Tonight was nice," you say gently.

"It could've been better."

You shake your head, "You can't control the weather, love."

But you could understand his frustration. You rarely got to spend much time together as it was.

You usually only see each other at night but by then are too exhausted to do anything other than eat and sleep.

James and you had started dating a few months ago, but you had known each other for years before then. You used to be an Avenger, but you quit after Steve left. First, it had been out of grief from your best friends; then it changed to you not wanting that kind of life anymore.

James was still very much in it—he was a soldier first, after all—and, as long as he didn't get himself killed, you were okay with that.

You unconsciously trace a small scar on his palm as Ella brings you the hot cocoas.

"Okay, here's the deal," she starts, "I have to close up in 45 minutes. You guys can stay to try to wait the rain out."

"Do you at least have an umbrella we can borrow?" you ask.

"Nope. I even gave mine to an old lady."

"And you can't let us stay?"

"Nada."

It's your turn to grumble, "Fine."

Ella shrugs, "I need to clean up," she says before making her leave.

James is still glaring out of the window when he suddenly turns his stare on you.

"This is why we should've taken the car," he concludes.

You are taken aback, "So it's my fault for suggesting that we walk for 20 minutes to the restaurant?"

"Guess so."

You scoff, "You are on very thin ice here, Barnes."

He raises an eyebrow, "Are you threatening me?"

"Guess so," you mimic.

"What are you going to do?" he asks, amused.

"Do you want to sleep on the couch?"

He scoffs at your threat but doesn't say anything else.

Smart man.

You sip your hot cocoas in silence.

Then, suddenly, you're laughing. James looks at you with an amused grin.

"I can make you sleep on the couch," you say, still giggling.

You poke his chest, and he starts laughing too.

"I know you can, dear. I know you can."

He grabs your chin with his right hand, tilting your head so you look him directly in the eye.

"What would I do without you?" he wonders out loud.

"It's too awful to think about," you joke.

He laughs again before pressing his lips against yours.

You sigh in the kiss. It's difficult to think you were once distrusting of the super soldier you had grown to love. Now you trusted him with everything you had and more.

It took a long time for you to see the ex-Winter Soldier's true nature. His gentle, shy yet annoyingly protective nature.

Too long.

He breaks off the kiss with a small smile.

"We should finish the hot cocoa before it gets cold," James suggests.

"Hot cocoa is more important than kissing your girlfriend?" you pout.

He shrugs, "It's good hot chocolate."

You don't deny his statement.

It's your turn to look out of the window. As rain bangs on the roof and glass of the small cafe, it seems to play out a rather aggressive tune. You don't like when it rains. It brings back rather painful memories, but you've learned that countering the bad memories with good ones helps make peace with the pain caused in a moment.

That gives you an idea.

"Do you want to sprint for it now?" you ask randomly.

The super soldier nearly spits out his cocoa, "What?"

"It's probably only gonna get worse, and we are going to have to eventually."

"Do you want to dance too?" he says sarcastically.

Your eyes light up at the idea, "Can we?"

James' eyes widen, "I meant it as a joke."

"But why not? It's as cliche as dancing in the apartment," you point out, "Besides, it'll be fun."

He shakes his head, "We are not dancing in the rain."

"But—"

"It's way too cold, and the last time you got sick, you couldn't get out of bed for a week."

You try to hide your wince by pouting, "Fine. No dancing."

He sighs, "But maybe we should go soon. It does look like it's going to get worse."

"So let's go then."

~~~

"Wait up!"

James' voice is nearly lost in the rain. You keep running, knowing full well he could catch up with you within a minute.

Or maybe he couldn't. You are pretty fast.

You laugh into the wind, your mouth filling with water as the painfully large raindrops hit your face.

You sprint in the direction you think is your house and try to calm the leather jacket that James gave you by wrapping it around your torso.

While doing so, you accidentally stumble on your feet and go flying forward.

Strong arms wrap around you within a moment, one made out of a now freezing metal.

"I got you," Bucky assures, "I got you."

You hear him loud and clear now despite his voice barely being above a whisper. The drumming of rain seems like an irrelevant background noise.

You turn to him, grinning like an idiot. His hair is stuck to his face. He shakes his head at you but is unable to hide his own smile.

No words need to be exchanged in the moment as his hands rest on your waist, and your arms loop around his neck.

You look at James with possibly all the love you hold and softly press your lips against his. It is easy to forget everything with him, even easier to forget the bad things.

He puts his arm on your neck and pulls away. "You're going to get sick."

"I've accepted it," you confess quickly, chasing his lips.

He shakes his head again but lets you kiss him regardless.

You got sick for a week afterward, but it was well worth it. Especially when you had James looking after you.

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ghostedsilk · 3 months ago

Text

wc: 2.6k

contents: nanami x gn!reader; age gap (they're both adults); kind of a mentor/mentee relationship (but not really); reader has some unresolved issues; (sexual?) tension; seemingly one-sided crush; suggestive; MDNI

a/n: a little something while I'm working on the toji fic. the voices made me write this, I hope y'all will enjoy it. comments and reblogs are very much appreciated! divider credits: @cafekitsune

“Are you hungry?”

A shake of your head, barely noticeable. As expected, Nanami mused. He held down a loud sigh.

The lethargic state in which the mission – the whole day – had left him was wearing him down, and all he wanted to do was lie in his bed and close his eyes. But even then, sleep came hard to him; it hovered above him, a painful tease, but it never dared to give him a sweet release. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt fully rested.

“Is there something else you want?”, Nanami tried again, a swift glance towards you.

You only made a dismissive noise in response. The sound almost got drowned out by the heavy rain outside of Nanami’s car. Every hit of the rain against his windows like a punch, with vigour and frustration behind it. Nanami tried not to let his own frustration show.

If there was one thing Nanami didn't lack, it was self-awareness.

He knew that in the eyes of most of his peers, he came across as stern, overly composed and perhaps a bit too serious. More than once did he hear from them that he ought to relax more and be less formal, but despite all that, they still had a certain respect (and some even admiration) for him. He was able to handle majority of his peers, albeit with a headache sometimes.

Yet he - for the life of him - couldn't figure out why you suddenly became a different person when he was near you. He caught a glimpse of how you acted around others – you were relaxed, laughed at some of the jokes that were made and could hold conversations without any problems.

So why did you act so strange around him?

Nanami would even go so far as to say that you seemed irritated by him. Sometimes he’d catch the roll of your eyes when he’d admonish you, or you'd give him a halfhearted nod when he’d share an important piece of information with you, as if you were trying to have as little conversation with him as possible. As if any interaction with him was a pain in the ass. It deepened his frown each time, the ache in his already throbbing head only getting worse.

He was used to a reaction like this towards Gojo, someone who was naturally irritating, but towards him?

Today, you went on a mission together. Initially, you were supposed to go on your own, but the higher ups decided it would be better if Nanami tagged along, in case something happened and you wouldn’t be able to handle it.

Nanami told you that he would stay out of the mission - your mission - and that he would only intervene if he thought it was necessary. Until a certain point, you believed that the mission was going well and that it would end in success for you. A way to prove yourself, to show everyone how capable you were. But then fate decided to show its twisted sense of humor today; just when you thought you had exorcised all the curses, another one suddenly came from behind you, catching you off guard. Too fast for you to react in time.

And the worst thing? Nanami had to come to your rescue, even though you nearly had it.

So now you were sitting in his car, parked in front of the apartment complex you lived in and waited. For what? You didn’t quite know. Nanami told you to wait until the rain stopped, since none of you had an umbrella with you. How considerate of him, right?

He sat next to you in the driver's seat, not a single strand of his perfectly coiffed hair out of place, not even a small stain on his clean, pressed suit.

With each passing minute, the silence between the two of you only grew more tense. Since all available managers were busy with other sorcerers, Nanami offered to use his car. He didn’t expect to do much or any work at all.

Your arms were crossed against your chest as you stared out of the window, chewing on the inside of your cheek and pointedly avoiding looking at the man next to you. You seemed uncomfortable, visibly upset, and that in return made Nanami restless; he tried to remember if he unknowingly offended you earlier. He sometimes tended to be a bit harsh, not feeling and seeing the need to sugarcoat things, but he was not someone who was reluctant to praise. So what did he do to you to make you dislike him?

He cleared his throat, one of his hands loosening his tie. It started to feel awfully tight around his neck.

"If you have a problem, you can tell me. After all, we are both adults here.”

"There's no problem," you muttered, fingers intertwined in your lap. You didn’t sound very convincing and your eyes still refused to meet his.

"Clearly there is," he said matter-of-factly, tired of beating around the bush. He wanted your honesty; he could handle it. After all, he had dealt with worse things in his life. "I may not know you that well, but I can see that something is bothering you."

Another beat of silence and Nanami considered dropping the subject and giving up. If you didn’t want to talk, then he won’t force you.

You felt like pure shit. The truth was, you definitely had a problem. With him. And even though he probably didn't mean to, he brought out the worst in you, all those ugly, desperate feelings that were buried deep inside your body. You hated the way he nagged you or made you feel stupid and fragile. You usually prided yourself on being confident and collected, but he could make you question yourself and your abilities so easily without even trying. You wanted to be independent, not have to lean on him for support; you were a strong sorcerer, for God's sake. So when he had to step in and rescue you like a damsel in distress, it did more than just irritate you. Simply put, your ego couldn't handle it. And it wasn't even his fault, the cause was entirely your own deep-seated insecurities.

He wasn't much older than you, yet he somehow made you feel like a lost child that lacked decades of experience. It annoyed you, but what annoyed you even more was the strong attraction you felt towards him.

Nanami was intimidating yet gentle, someone with good intentions, probably better than any of the other senior sorcerers you worked with.

You longed for his praise, to hear his approval and let it wrap you in a warm embrace. But you were afraid of falling for it, of becoming dependent. An addict. You could never be casual about such things, the intensity was too strong in your heart, a part of you.

The smell of his expensive cologne made your head spin, the urge to nuzzle your face against his neck and breathe in his comforting, masculine scent growing harder and harder to resist. It was like fighting a natural instinct, every fiber of your body yelling at you to give in.

But what made it even harder was the simple fact that he would never see you in that light. Nanami was too good a man, you knew it, everyone knew it. It was supposed to lessen your attraction, but somehow it made it stronger. Maybe there was something seriously wrong with you.

Averting your gaze from the window, you couldn't help but let your eyes linger on his thighs, the thickness of them stretched across the seat, muscles straining against his tight slacks. You swallowed as your mind began to wander.

You imagined his big hand, the same one he used to exorcise curses, gently caressing the nape of your neck, the other one cupping your cheek so tenderly, as if you would crack under the slightest pressure, thumb brushing under your eye. The band of his watch would dig lightly into your skin, leaving faint marks that you'd only notice later when you looked in the mirror.

The sounds he'd make, a hungry humming vibrating against your lips as his mouth would fit perfectly against yours in a desperate rhythm, as if he'd waited far too long to devour you. A choked moan as your hand pressed against his thigh to stabilize yourself, nails digging into the fat there as the muscles twitched under your burning touch.

The deep blush that would color his cheeks, spreading across the bridge of his nose as his breath hitched. The growing bulge between his thighs that would ache and harden as you brushed your fingertips over it, his hips lifting up and chasing for more.

You wanted to see him crumble because of you, to succumb to his desires and abandon his principles. To bring all the pleasure that brew underneath his skin to a boil. But you weren't naive; you knew it would only remain a distant dream, a hidden fantasy of yours. Because it was Nanami.

"I'm just exhausted," you finally responded with a shake of your head, daring to briefly meet his piercing brown eyes, rid of his glasses. You watched how his lips pressed into a flat line, his head tilted the slightest bit. You thought the expression on his face could be concern.

"Then you should take it easy," Nanami said, so frustratingly considerate. "You may be an adult, but you're still too young to suffer all this stress."

Immediately, as if he had pressed a trigger point, a groan left your mouth at his words and your head slammed back against the car seat rather dramatically. Your fingers pinched the bridge of your nose.

"Stop treating me like an incompetent child. I can handle this perfectly fine. Seriously, you're acting as if I’ve just started as a sorcerer, even though I've been doing this for several years now."

Nanami went still and blinked. His brows furrowed, the shadows on his face darkened, and he shifted in his seat to face you properly. "I do believe you're competent. You're talented, but that doesn't mean you should disregard your own limits."

Your eyelashes fluttered and you peered at him from the corner of your half-lidded eye.

"I just want you to take me seriously."

"I do. And I don't want you to end up like me; it's my duty as your senior to make sure you have it better than I did."

"But it makes me feel like shit," you bit back, all the frustration pouring out of you like an uncontrollable body of water. You couldn't hold back anymore, the gates now opened. "You may have no ill intentions, but that doesn't mean your actions can't negatively affect me."

You waved a hand at him. "And then you had to save me today. I really thought I could do it for a moment, but of course I screwed up. And you had to clean up after me."

"You did not mess up," Nanami insisted stubbornly.

“Oh, c’mon,” you scowled. “I always seem to do so in your eyes.”

"I never thought of you that way," Nanami replied, the tension in his face softening. "I didn't know you felt that way."

"Well," you murmured, rubbing the back of your neck. "I guess that's on me." You exhaled, head tipped back. "It's just hard, you know? To show any sign of weakness."

"But it's not weakness. You're just being human."

Then he reached his hand up, and you watched as he placed it on your shoulder, the size of his hand dwarfing it. The warmth of his careful touch made your skin tingle through your clothes, his thumb rubbing lightly against the tingling spot. In just a few seconds, you found it harder to breathe, the air too stuffy in his car, which seemed to have shrunk.

A casual touch, you thought. Nothing special. But the way it consumed you and festered through your body was anything but casual.

"You did well today,” Nanami said pointedly, an attempt to calm and reassure you. The deep timbre of his voice crossed the small distance between you and traveled through your body, tightening the knot in your stomach. Your fingers pressed into the side of your seat. You held his piercing stare, fearing for a moment that he could read you every thought and figure you out. Your tongue poked out to wet your lips. A weak nod was all you could give him.

He removed his hand, slowly, and for a fleeting moment you thought that his fingers lingered on you for a little too long before he resumed his former position and his hand returned to his leg.

You subtly shook your head again – clearly your exhaustion was taking over you and clouding your mind. You had to get yourself together. Maybe a short trip to Shoko would help.

"How do you deal with all this stress?" you asked, more calmly now that the cat was out of the bag.

He made a sound, a mix of a huff and a sigh. “I don’t deal with it; I’m afraid it will always accompany me.”

You hummed, tilting your head to rest on your shoulder. Your eyes flickered back to him. "Sounds exhausting. Have you tried anything to relieve the stress?"

“I don’t think there’s something that could relieve it. I guess that’s just the price I pay as a sorcerer.”

"Really?" you asked, sounding skeptical.�� "Is there really nothing that would help relax your body? Take your mind off all this jujutsu stuff?"

His lips parted, words sitting right on the tip of his tongue, but they closed again. Instead, “No, I can’t really think of anything.”

“Hmh, but that way you might die from the stress, and not because of a mission. That would be an unimpressive way to go.”

To your surprise, he let out a snort, the ghost of a thin smile forming on his face.

“You’re probably right.”

“Maybe I can help.”

He didn’t respond right away. Then, “How?”

"By locking Gojo up for a few hours. Or a few days."

The amused glint in the brown of his irises returned. He rubbed his eyes.

"I'm afraid that won't do much. Knowing him, he'd find a way to be annoying from wherever he's locked up."

You were about to reply, hoping to keep the conversation going, but then you looked outside; the rain had stopped. All that remained was the dark sky. Your teeth sank into your lower lip, hesitating.

"…I have to go now. It’s late and you probably also want to go home."

He gave you a curt nod. His eyes were now focused forward, an unreadable expression crossing his face.

You opened the door and climbed out of the seat, your feet already on the ground, before you turned your head slightly, giving Nanami a view of your side profile.

“…thank you, Nanami.” And I’m sorry, you wanted to add. But you weren’t there yet. Your stupid pride still had a firm grip on you and not even the little conversation you had could get you out of it. Perhaps you needed more time.

“Of course.”

As you closed the door and started to walk away, you didn't get to see him slump back into his seat with a heavy sigh, a hand running down his face, the tips of his ears turning a crimson color as shame coursed through his veins.

You would be the death of him, he was sure of it.

#jjk x reader #nanami x reader #nanami kento x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #nanami x you #nanami kento x you #suggestive

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eldrith · 3 months ago

Text

ғʀᴏᴍ ᴇᴅᴇɴ ; ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴛʜʀᴇᴇ.

ᴄʜɪᴠᴀʟʀʏ ғᴇʟʟ ᴏɴ ʜɪs sᴡᴏʀᴅ ;

words: 8.4k synopsis: jacaerys falls for a woman in aegon's garden. notes: happy halfway! we're only a few weeks from halloween & im getting excited that this story is at its midway point. i hope those who read this enjoy it. it's as always for my muses @useralba and @dipperscavern ... my co authors frong!! chapter warnings: active and willing denial on jace's part tbh. themes of corruption, spooky visions, smut; masturbation, dry humping, heavy petting, finger sucking, hint (?) of choking [v brief], sort-of under the influence activities so - dubious morals in this one [youll see]. eating as sexual imagery, sin/shameful thoughts, religious themes & symbolism, temperature play-ish?, blood & injury depictions, brief mentions of…consuming blood…lightttt manipulation[:D], angst, grief, discussion of death. & some fluff. this is so unedited series masterlist. main masterlist.

THE CHAMBERS OF MAESTER GERARDYS ARE TINGED WITH DRIED HERBS AND DAMP PARCHMENT.

It is a smell which rather permeates the air through the corridors of the castle on the more inclementing days – even when he was younger, Jacaerys found himself passing by the smell of feverfew and steamed stinging nettle on his way to lessons in the bowels of the stone drum.

Thick tears of rain slide down a weathered pane. Jacaerys reclines in a small chair; In front of him, a poultice is mixed by steady hands.

His head pulses with a familiar ache; the one which has plagued him for days, rendered him rather restless and jumpy on the best of days, irascible and brusque on the others. There is a slow roll of thunder outside; it rattles the weakened pane beside him – faintly, he can nearly hear the call of some childish laughter warbled in the storm outside.

There are no children left on the island now that his brothers are gone with Rhaena; with them, it seems, has gone the sun. The days have been plunged into dreary rolls of high clouds and low sheets barreling down with coughs of spitting sleet; The nights remain the only time the air is relatively clear of that wetting dark, and yet still clouds slink under silvery slivers of waxing moon.

Agitated, Jace watches Maester Gerardys pour some oiled ointment, warming it between his palms; straightening his spine to a more respectable position, Jacaerys tilts his jaw for the man to begin to massage the ointment into his temples.

A sigh of relief. “It’s only getting worse,” He murmurs, eyes fluttering shut at the sharp scent of peppermint. “-The head aches, the knots in my stomach.”

Maester gerardys hums as he pulls away, returning to the poultice as he glances attentively at the prince – though he says nothing, and Jacaerys is prompted to fill the silence once more.

“I suppose getting air has helped… Aegon’s Garden is not nearly as taxing to the senses as flying on dragonback these days.” He observes absently, watching another onslaught of rain slam against the window, “… and your oils, of course - though, they’re quite strong in the bath. I find the blooms to be rather pleasant now. I don’t know if you recall, Maester, but I was quite sensitive to plants when I was a babe.”

Below on the grounds, a flicker of blue through hedges of green; Jacaerys jumps only slightly, blinking – and the figure is gone. He must be going mad.

Though in a moment of odd silence, the grind of the mortar has stopped.

Gerardys’ eyes flick up to his own, leaking with a flicker of wariness. “Yes, the…garden.” He repeats slowly, straightening his back. “My Prince, I’ve… noticed you’ve been spending quite some time there recently.”

Jacaerys, not used to such suspicion from the man, bristles immediately. Some desire, perhaps, to protect the sanctity of the garden - to protect you.

“And?” He wonders stiffly.

Maester Gerardys sets the mortar to the table, voice cautious. “It is not my place to pry, but… we must be wary not to… become distracted in such times. The dragonseeds arrive late on the morrow, and the efforts of war demand the entire island’s attention.”

Offense bristles through Jacaerys’ chest as he levels a sharp gaze at the man before him. Without hesitation, he rises from his previous seat, patience more than frayed. “Do you think me not focused?”

At the following silence, his voice tightens. “I am not a boy, Gerardys. I know what is at stake - better even than you. And it will do you well to remember who it will be to lead the charge when the time comes.”

Gerardys does not flinch at the sharpness of Jacaerys’ tone, but nods briefly. “Of course, my Prince. My apologies.” Jacaerys moves to make his exit, though Maester Gerardys’ voice stops him once more., “Though… It is my duty to keep you in good health. You’ve mentioned before a girl, in the garden - pardon me, but there has not-”

“Enough!” Jacaers snaps, pushing off the table. His temper has flared - though tipped over the cliff by his words, it is not Maester Gerardys who aggravates him so; rather, a heavy impending doom has settled upon his stomach at the damning reminder of the dragonseeds which crawl their way from whatever villages or flea’s bottom they come from now to chance a life of riding a dragon. Of some inkling that, in some way, Gerardys’ words are right; and Jacaerys lashes, a cornered hound.

“You forget yourself, Maester.” He exhales sharply through his nose, “You are here to help aid my ailments. That is all you need to do."

Gerardys bows his head, “Of course.”

He is nearly to the threshold when Maester Gerardys’ voice carries - soft and unsettling as an owl’s stare in the pitch of night. “Just remember, my Prince. Sometimes, the things which ease the mind… might mislead the heart.”

Jacaerys stops before the chamber door, hand clenching into a fist at his side; a nerve has been plucked, struck, ripped - some small growing doubt in the back of his own mind, one that festers and yearns to bloom with kindling of another’s words. Worry eases through him, though there is no time for that; more pressing matters loom.

The dragonseeds arrive on the eve, it seems.

He is gone from the chambers without another word, ignoring the fading needle sting of Maester Gerardys’ odd words as they dissolve into the large bow of day.

IT IS OF LITTLE IMPORTANCE WHEN JACAERYS HAS HIS BATH DRUM MOVED.

Though it is a simple request, an innocent one - brought up while breaking fast one morning, watching with concealed fluster as three servants drag his bath drum towards the windowsill. Though it is indeed blameless and simple, he feels rather horrid for it.

It is a twist of disgust that blossoms into some equally thrilling bloom in his chest. A transfixion, to keep gaze upon the expanse of a sea beyond his scope, of all that will one day be all his own to rule. To prove, perhaps in some twisted way, that it is he who will sit on the throne when his mother has finished her long reign; that those mules with silver hair and names of sand or snow do not come to delude themselves into making a claim of their own.

To watch over the baileys below, to see the fishing villages, mere specks in the distant shoreline; to see ships smaller than fleas sail to and from, to see the rustle of wildgrass upon the pathway to the garden below.

To watch Aegon’s Garden.

It is not, he tells himself, in any off-chance that he might catch sight of those silky tresses, of that smooth and wintry skin, of your curling smile. Jacaerys simply enjoys the views of sky, sea, mountain - and if he were to catch a glimpse of your beautiful visage, whispering to the flowers and laughing as if the blooms could whisper back? Perhaps that would simply be a welcomed favor.

The water in his bath steams; oils of rosemary and peppermint mix in a rather sharp smell upon his skin, though the tendrils of steam curl into his head and ease the sharpness of his mind’s ache.

Reclining back, eyes half-lidded, Jacaerys sighs into the heat of the water.

Lithe, tense muscles ache with the tension of the day - though it is morning, he knows he must rouse soon; but in the hour ahead that he has to bathe and break fast, he will allow himself to slip away from life, into the recesses of his mind - to where only you exist.

You.

Jacaerys allows for his fingertips to brush absently along the water’s surface - so similarly to how they’d traced the curve of your neck, tangled into your hair. It’s been far too long since he visited you last - two nights past since he was tugged through the hedges once more, hiding a grin, ducking under low-hanging vines, gasping into kisses stolen by your wanting lips.

There is no such flame that perhaps has ever burned hotter than the memory of your touch; an icy one, a chilling touch that sends the cold aches of the North to shame; though it burns so hot in his mind’s eye.

You, a world apart from the suffocating smoke of war - an endearing, true girl; the way your smile tugs at the corner of your lips, some glint in your gaze that beckons him closer - deeper.

Eyelashes kiss his cheeks when he shuts his lids, and mercifully he sees it - you, head tilted in the sunlight, shadows of the garden dancing along the stretch of your soft skin, the icy breath of shade a cool respite from the despotic sun.

And that heady, rich scent that clings to your skin - the figs, the juicy skin, the pinking bud of flesh inside, your lips so divine, wrapped around them, tasting, licking, biting-

His breath hitches; without thinking - or perhaps, telling himself instead not to think - his palm slips beneath the water.

Jacaerys’ groan is quiet into the empty chamber; but his calloused palm is softened by the warmth of the water, and his mind is hazy in the visions of you, staring at him, lips wrapped around that fruit.

Its scent, the lingering taste of it upon your lips, so sweet - you, so sweet.

And he did not try a taste then, but gods how he had wanted to; how he still wants to. A taste - of that flesh, dripping with sweet juice and marbled skin of ripe fruit - and of every inch of you, each breathless hitch of a moan, every whisper of his name from your lips. Pleasure curls down the base of his spine as he allows his fist to move; broad strokes, as languid as the slithering shift of your skirts around corners, as sharp as your gasped giggle when he makes you laugh.

And it’s you; he nearly believes it is you, wrapped around his cock so snug - pleasure lapping at core, water kissing his chest as he stirs in the bath, stuttering breaths that leak a few spare whimpers into the quiet morning air.

There is a breeze through the open window that sends Jacaerys’ bare chest to shiver against the steam of hot bath; A familiar chill, wrapping and curling around him like the winds of winter - settling at the nape of his neck, but dripping lower to pool at the very base of him, where his fist moves, desperate and seeking.

And though he pretends it does not happen, he knows his fist curls and moves to the rhythm of your sighs in his memory, how you’re always so eager to press into him, to kiss him, to taste him; desperate and hungry.

Hunger – that glint, dangerous and unknown in your eyes; a flicker of a grin too wide-pulled, the sliding of a gaze that feels ancient. It’s not proper, he knows; but the pleasure mounts anyways – because of it, perhaps – and that sickly smile sends himself further to the edge, grip shaking as his hips buck against nothing.

Water splashes from the basin. A bite on the plush of his lip as he suppresses a shuddering moan; his abdomen has tensed in such curling pleasure - an ice against the fire in his veins, intoxicating, arresting.

The pressure always builds - not just this pleasurable kind, though his body insists to his mind he should be focusing on such things - and in the last few desperate days that he’s spent far from you, you who truly understands him - it is in these times when he seeks such salacious relief.

It is your name whispered from his lips, breathless - too many times to admit in the past weeks of knowing your company. It is some distraction from the clawing talons of fate; when his palms are warm against his cock though he finds himself wishing to feel your own - that chilling touch which lures him so.

His desperate, soiled lips - groaning your name, falling from his tongue as the whisper of a phantom, some half-formed prayer to gods long-forgotten, squeezed with the very last of air which lived in his lungs. Licking at his skin, curling into his blood like the shade under which you’d kissed him.

The phantom feeling grasps at him, pressing against the thrash of his heartbeat in his chest, bringing the sting of overwhelm to his lashline, coaxing gasps through his lips and tickling a flush to his cheeks.

He can almost feel you when that same shivering peak leaves him panting, gasping as his ecstasy rolls through his entire body, his head lolling back against the tub basin as he whines your name into the empty chamber.

And in those moments, just like now - as his chest heaves and knuckles turn white, as he spends himself - he can think of nothing else.

It is only you.

Though when he steps from the bath and stretches his bare muscles into the bright of day, eyeing the line of constellated freckles which sprinkle over his pectorals and gather in pools upon his shoulders and bridge of nose, he feels the slow recovery of what had slipped so easily from his conscious - pain.

And just as it disappeared, so it appears once more; with a sharp wince, Jacaerys jolts from his haze, gasping at the heavy ache which throbs in the back of his head.

With flushed cheeks, he watches the garden below for any sign of life; It swirls with tantalizing greens, the scent of dahlias and gardenias blowing in even this high into the tower through the open casement. A sigh falls secret and unbidden from his lips as curls are raked back upon his head with a shaky palm.

As always, the pull is there.

The lull, some sweet melody that spins the strings of his heart, warming the blood pulsing in his chest and gathering below his abdomen; which soothes the ache of his mind and whispers his name in the soft breeze.

It is melancholy, in the way life has been without Lucerys. Shadows swirl darker under the attention of morning sun – petals curl beneath the breath of frost, melting back into themselves in the first whispers of day. The blooms smile up at him, and he longs for the embrace of something he can never have.

The garden breathes below.

Across the bailey, the dragonseeds take up arms - measly children playing at a game they know nothing about; Jacaerys’ jaw clicks when he glimpses the regal posture of his own mother across the way, speaking with Maester Gerardys and Addam of Hull. The pierce of his mind’s ache is sharper - the garden’s breeze sends a breath of loneliness through him.

He shuts the window without a second thought.

IT IS ONLY SO MANY HOURS UNTIL HE FINDS HIMSELF IN THE GARDEN ONCE MORE.

Misery flutters in Jacaerys’ mind with every ragged gasp he takes; a creeping nightmare, rousing him from sweaty sheets - clammy and with half a scream lodged in his throat, he’d stirred.

Visions of white, some restless churning that’d grown from dirt of dreams and sprouted a blossoming nightmare - at the top of that ancient, towering wall of ice, the words falling from Cregan Stark’s lips. A fate worse than death.

The loss of his brother; the face which echoed in so many ways his own. The end of a life - of a lifetime - and he still wakes up from restless slumber every night, gasping dry air, yearning for the days of sparring, of fixing wrinkled folds of rich doublets, of teaching lessons, of laughs concealed painfully at supper.

Though tonight, after being roused from sleep by a scream that did not sound like his own, Jacaerys had stood from his mattress, slamming the empty chalice of water upon his table as he calmed his breaths, watching the hedges swirl and blow in the night’s breeze. He’s grown used to the figments of his sleep-hungry mind – young men running past statues, laughter bubbling far away. But tonight, he saw you in a flash of white dress and a rumble of ancient hunger, some need to be in arms which trust and do not quite question.

And so, he ran.

Still clad in his tunic and sleep-trousers, he stumbled past the iron gates, gripped in a chilling bout of tedious familiarity; how many times must he find himself here, searching for comfort - to be haunted by life, by loss?

Why had he not, instead, sought out his mother? Baela? Lord Corlys is often awake at such ghastly hours these days, staring at the sea from upon his balcony…

It is admittedly not the first time he has sought you out in such turmoil; indeed, in the weeks of knowing you, scarcely has past two days where he has not ventured into the gardens; where he has not sought your eerie quiet, your soft words, your gentle palms upon his glistening cheeks.

There is in you perhaps that innocence so lost in people like him - people tainted by the burden of duty; and in your smiles, your whispers, your laughs, your tears - he has come to know you and to love you separately, to be transfixed by you and to crave you.

He supposes it is indeed some rebellion of his own - any breath of you is swept behind by those he has known his whole life; his mother, with no bat of her eye over your name in passing, though if she had scarcely an idea of what he did with you when there was nothing but the swirling trees and falling petals… lips on soft lips, hands on plush curves...

And Jacaerys knows, quite deep in his mind, why he could not speak with them. So often he finds words falling on deafened ears; those who do not understand, or who simply do not wish to. Unlike you – wise beyond your years.

In the pitch dark of night, the statues grow warped - blackened by the hatred of weather and neglect of island; it is darker than he’s ever seen the Garden, with a nearly full moon concealed by thick clouds of dread.

Blindly he stumbles into a statue - grasping once more unto the familiar young maiden’s thigh for balance; though the serpent which encircles her is coiled higher over her hips than he recalls.

Fingertips trace over the scales of the snake, and with a distinct desire in his throat, he presses his forehead to the cool stone of the stone woman’s dress skirts; a momentary comfort upon the stone lap.

It is only moments before his breathing calms; lips, pressing to the stone he rests upon - and that visage that watches down at him - stone and lifeless in the dark, eternally you.

IT TAKES HIM NO TIME TO FIND YOU DEEPER IN THE GARDEN.

It is odd, perhaps, that his feet find their way to you each time he seeks you out, as though they have a memory of their own - though he still feels lost in the ever distending garden itself.

Under the olive tree, as you lurk in the shadows, some ancient beastly predator awaits the hare; but you are no foe.

He stands numbly, the loneliness that grips his chest and fosters growing insecurities and fears within his mind dissolving under your beaming smile.

You’re against him in only a moment, pulling him by the wrists into your embrace; he feels odd, as though he floats when you tug him nearer.

“Jacaerys,” You whisper, eyes wide - startled, perhaps, at his visit in such an unseemly hour; though you, too, are here in the garden. It is beyond him to wonder why you so choose to spend your nights here, when he lies so sleeplessly in his own chambers each night wishing for the embrace of the garden.

The knot in his chest unfurls just under your touch - and you seize him in a shy kiss, leaning on tip-toes to seek his warmth.

He gasps into it, overwhelmed by the cold of your lips against his own; but he melts into the intoxicating simplicity of being wanted - and wanted by you, gods - and kisses you back deeply. Soft tresses tickle his forearm as he slides his arms around your back, tugging you into him - as if he could perhaps drown himself in you; as if he could forget the weight of the night, of the troubles that always come when morning breaks.

His hands find your waist as you pull away, though not too far - he keeps you close, to see the breath that falls from your lips and raises the goosepimples upon his neck, each flutter of every single eyelash.

“You’ve returned,” And you speak the words breathlessly each time he visits, without fail; as if you truly fear that each time he leaves, it will be the last time.

But your smile falls at the state of him, leaning closer to tuck your palm under his jaw.

“What troubles you, my love?” You wonder softly, a cold breeze of your palm brushing away his curled tresses - and he tries not to keen into the touch, swallowing thickly at the concern, at the empathy that drips from your words. He does not recall when you began to levy him with such sweet words – gone is my prince, taken up with far more intimate, kind titles; And, in return, when he whispers such devoted titles into your ear, into the breath of the garden – you bloom, a small smile growing evergreen upon your visage.

Your name is whispered from his lips with a shake of his head, the emotions crawling back to the forefront of his mind, dragging his weary bones down towards the earth.

And, devoted as always, you go with him; sinking into the thick soil, running your fingers through his hair as he breathes heavily, using his best effort to resist the tears which brim in his vision. He feels a fool; though you would not ever hold him in such contempt.

His voice is tight. “I wished to see you,” He admits, “I… saw you, from my chambers.”

Your lips curl into a soft grin; your eyes are dark - knowing - in the concealed moonlight, and it stirs that same odd crazed feeling within his bones. And no matter how tight his grasp on your arm becomes, you do not wince; you instead pull him with a soft caress and practiced words, curled under the statue of the dying lovers.

It is there he lies, head cushioned on the soft chill of your lap, blinking back syrupy eyelids as he spills his mind to you.

His mother, the dragonseeds; heirs, bastards, the colour of the very locks your fingers card through so gently.

His words whisper, curling up through your own hair and floating into the limbs of the tree behind you; your eyes are large as he confesses to you each and every thing that has infected him, has let fester within his mind for so long that now it rots and oozes from his lips with a bitter hatred.

Your words whisper in return, dripping from honeyed lips and soothing the sore and bruised bones that lie so weary beneath skin so thick.

It is in no effort to convince him of one thing nor another; Your words are for him, and that is it - your words are simple, kind, understanding. A balm over festering wounds of family, of fate.

“Jace?” You ask into the quiet of the night - and the tug on his heartstring of your delicate use of his sobriquet fosters a gentle, dreamy smile to his lips. He hums into the quiet garden, his fingers slipping through the tresses of your free hair, billowing around his head like a thick curtain; he leans up and steals a soft kiss from your parted lips, laughing gently at the blush that creeps over your countenance.

Not a breath later, a pressure slides soft against Jacaerys’ face and he jumps slightly. Though you laugh at his misfortune, you straighten; the curtain is pulled, and Jace blinks in the moonlight to find the creature that’d slinked its way into your privacy.

Jacaerys’ gut twists – the cat.

A gasp of excitement from you. “Shadow, darling.” You purr affectionately - Jacaerys, wary and uneased, sits himself upright from his pillow in your lap, spine uncurling into regal posture once more.

It bunts its small head against your palm and Jacaerys is claimed by a faint memory – Baela feeding Sȳndor a foraged fish; You sigh in disappointment, shaking your head down at the cat. “I have none with me this evening, I’m afraid.”

The cat hisses; he feels his spine straighten even more, hair on end.

“Jacaerys,” You hum; your hand is outstretched, and with a disoriented blink, he wonders when you’d risen to stand. He rises, hand in yours as you smile against the pitch-black of night. “I’ve something I would like to show you.”

The deeper into the garden you lead Jacaerys, the longer the silvery shadows of statues cast; wrath, visages weathered and greened by spoiled coils of vines - they leap at him when he passes. Earth and dying leaves hang in the air; but in the rotting turns and bends in the far end of the garden, where he’s never been, they give way to something sweeter, richer.

It’s a slow crawl - in a breeze, in a short laugh from you, in the sway of your loose tresses when you turn a corner too quickly for the prince to keep up. A cat-and-mouse game.

Though it grows - a smell so intoxicating that when you finally arrive, Jacaerys is stopped dead in his tracks.

Bewilderment, some serious dip in his gut in alarm at the monstrous silhouette that just barely looms in the shadows of night. His neck has to crane to see them: Figs – plump, ripe, hanging heavy and dripping from gnarled branches easily the size of himself.

It is a tree twice the size of the olive tree - a feat of its own - and possibly more; the fruits drip with nectar that shimmers as if caught in the light that does not find the rest of the Garden.

Massive.

The tree backs up and towers over the stone wall at the end of the garden, fog swirling in a small blanket that conceals the thick, rising roots emerging from the earth.

And at first, Jacaerys believes the heat rising within him to be hunger; his stomach growls quietly, churning at the alluring scent of fruit - but with a glance at you, hand still in his - a different hunger claws at him.

The heat spreads through his veins.

It tightens his chest, mouth watering at the thought of a bite of that sweet fruit, its gentle juices as they slide over trembling, pure skin; his hunger grows, some famished beast clawing at his chest. And a taste of you - that intoxicating you, ever-present and sweet in his mind.

Gods, this is ill done. He does not ask before tugging you gently with him towards the tree, the overwhelming scent pulling him deeper under its yawning canopy.

His hand only slips from yours when he reaches the base of the tree; staring up at the sprawling web of branches above, he lets out an incredulous laugh that is deafened immediately in the sedated air around you.

“It’s enormous,” Fingers brush against bark, ancient and rough, “Why haven't I seen it before? It feels…” He trails off, searching for the words; but he’s gone rather hot in sudden desire. You’re behind him - he feels your freezing breath trickle down his nape, your hand ghosting over his spine; though the shiver that follows is not just from your lips. “...Hidden.” He finishes absently.

Jacaerys turns into your touch, but you are not behind him - you remain a few paces away, bending to feed the cat a fig you’ve plucked from a lower branch.

The presence he’d felt behind him is gone; With a blink, unease churns in his gut.

His question lingers - but too does the heat. That overwhelming scent, as the cat leaps to rip voraciously into the flesh of the fruit. He watches, torn between horror and captivation as the little beast tears at it, releasing some faint growl that sounds nearly like a purr.

His own fingers reach up shakily to pluck a fruit laced in shadows – and in the moonlight, the flesh is nearly purple.

“Perhaps the garden hides what it wishes to keep.”

He startles only slightly – you’re in his ear now, voice laced in that way that stirs heat within him. His fingers clutch the fruit desperately, breathing heavy to regain whatever strength he has lost in the battle against desire. Your whisper sends curling arousal over the ridges of his spine, “The soil is rich here, you know. Fertile, in ways men think it shouldn’t be. The Dragonmont’s deposits do little to stop such delicious fruit from blossoming – it is foolish to think this land cursed.”

Cursed, his mind whispers – and his brows furrow, your words stirring unease in the back of his mind; It is so difficult to think clearly at such a late hour, with the hunger stirring so deep, with the fruit and your hand so soft in his own.

Cursed – but you eat them; and as he gazes into your glinting eyes in the dark, your bare toes dug into the very soil upon which you stand – hunger gnaws at him, blinding his sight from whatever shadows curl in the dark. He doesn’t mind, he decides.

Cursed, or blessed – it is often quite hard to tell the difference.

And his hunger crescendos; with a small press of your lips to the sensitive patch of his neck, the grazing of teeth sharper than the blade forgotten in his chambers, his hand twitches; his thumb splits the seam of the fruit open.

At the movement, the pad of his finger slides into the flesh, its juices dripping into his palm; you let out a small whimper at this, your hands curling in a grasp around his arms – the noise sends heat through him, coiling at the base of him.

Your eyes are alight with hunger – eyes wide, some shrouded smile growing upon hungry lips as he stares down between you and the fruit.

He yearns for something; all his life, for something. To feel alive, a voice whispers - the Garden is alive, you are alive. You are.

His hand drops the fruit.

For just a moment, your face flickers – but he brings his thumb to hover over your cheek, the air thick with the smell of its juices. He is hungry; insatiable. Your breath stutters as you stare up at him, and he down at you, breaths puffing between parted lips, shaking with unspoked craving.

“Gods,” he murmurs; and then, your tongue darts out – his throat tightens, goosepimples roving through him as you gently lick the pulp of the fig from his thumb, leaning further towards him.

He leans; Gods, he can’t help himself – and then his lips are on yours, rapacious, greedy.

You press with cold hands into him, and he stumbles back into the bark of the tree, thicker than himself three times round the trunk; your tongue prods his own, and he can’t help the groan that tears from the back of his throat – the taste, ambrosial.

Some remnants of the fruit linger upon your lips, and he’s unable to quench himself of the desire that spins his head; that sinks him low once more into the soil, that tugs you daringly atop him.

Jacaerys blinks back a bout of dizziness when his eyes adjust – reposed below the fig tree, temptations swirling around his mind as you slide into his lap coyly.

How he got here, he cannot recall; but you’re real and touching him – an icy palm upon the juncture of his neck, your slender thumb slipping to curl over the base of his throat as he keens towards you, plush lips seeking the thrill of your skin against his mouth.

Dress shifts; his tunic rustles, the leaves fall and the fruit lies in the earth, split open. Perhaps it is the hour - or it is the stare you give him; he is overwhelmed with the sense that you know every part of him; every fear, every weakness – and still you lie in his lap, eager and blushing as the day you first met. His mind flashes – in that numb way, as if he is on the precipice of some crucial understanding.

Your own lips sink into his, pressing away any melancholia, replacing it with a boiling hunger - an icy groan from him as you shift in his lap, his stirring arousal quick and heated with your sweet proximity.

Your hips stir upon his own – it lights arousal through him, tensing each muscle in his body as he coaxes you to do it again, again, again; until he is numb but for the sensation of you, willing and hungry and his.

His fingers clench; one palm, grounding himself with a grasp on the junction of your hip - the other, tracing the outline of a nearby root, feeling the thrumming heartbeat which seems to come tandem from both your flesh and its own.

The kiss he pulls you into is careful, hungry, exploring – overwhelming, as your fingers slide into his curls and tug gently; a hiss of desire from him that arches his spine into your cool skin.

He takes your sighs, your curves, the tremble of your hands as you palm at his own pliant body as if it’s a proof to himself – he is a man, he is alive – he, more than a playpiece in his mother’s endless efforts, more than a name which will be written leatherbound parchments of history to come.

He is more than it all; because he is yours.

“Jace–” Your voice is breathless, and it nearly kills him.

In a short whimper, you shift your hips upon his own, driving yourself over the line of his hardened cock – and he hisses, biting hard into the plush of his lower lip.

Near immediately, your tongue soothes over him; and a small noise of pleasure – nearly missed, though your eyes flash as you lean away from his mouth, a smattering of his own metallic blood upon your lip.

Your eyes are blown wide; a chilling sight, reveling in the taste of his ichor – and your hand, cupping his jaw with that frosty command as you hum, eyes taking him apart, putting him back together. Staring through his soul. Gods, you’re divine.

“Is this okay?” You whisper - your lips brush against his in a chilling shiver of pleasure; in which he nods enthusiastically, eyes wide and begging and willing. “Yes, please–”

And he cannot finish, because he is soon letting a soft whimper fall desperately against your own lips; you stir with wandering fingers, undulating against him with a sweet pressure that nearly sends a choked moan past his lips.

Fingers tangle in the strings of your loose hair, tugging you closer; your chest presses to his – a muddled awe when he feels your heartbeat switch and begin beating to the very same gallop as his own.

His breath falls ragged as your lips press a blizzard of sultry kisses across his jaw; your gown’s hem curls and ruffles below him as trembling fingers trace it shyly, staving his insatiable hunger.

Haziness leaks into his mind like the winds creep upon winter; perhaps from the cool, delicate skin so inviting underneath his palm, or perhaps the thick, heady scent of figs in the air. Completely at your mercy, craving everything you’re willing to give him – and as though you know it, there is an odd feeling, some shift under the thick limbs of tree above; it is a jarring realization that you’re smiling against his neck, teeth small needles upon his skin.

His brow furrows - a groan slips from his lips as his fingers gently tug at your hair, coaxing your head up from his wanting skin.

Your eyes, blown wide and hungry as his own; and in a hazy swallow, his voice thick with desire and disbelief breaks the quiet of the garden. “You’re divine,” He admits, shaking his head. You laugh at this; that very sharp thing that always seems too loud for your lungs – his mind blares for a moment, but it disappears with a kiss to his jaw.

“You are, my Prince.” You insist. And in your words strikes him a jolt; Gods, this is ill done. He should have stopped when you led him to the tree – he should have turned back when your eyes lingered too long on his lips, when his hunger grew insatiable and unable to contain – when you slithered into his lap, when he tugged you closer and whispered such flowery words into your sweet ear; when he kissed your lips with blistering fervor and locked his arms so you could not slither away, even if you wished to.

He is a prince, after all—honor bound, held to standards that now seem so absurdly distant; and indeed, as you move atop him, as your hands snake beneath his tunic and brush icicles over his burning bare skin, something snaps inside him.

Your hips, and your sensual smile – torturous things, as you draw a slow rhythm that sends his mind spiraling deeper into the fog of lust; frantically, his hips cant upwards in chase of your own.

Embarrassment is merely a wash of afterthought – because you whimper just as he does, shivering in his grasp at the ecstasy that builds between your frigid skin and his own, furnaced by the ancient blood coursing through his body.

Ice and fire, his mind whispers – and he is struck with some deep-seeded pride, a knowledge that, more than carnally, he was meant to find you, to be with you; And that, perhaps, yours is the heart he will forever keep, as you keep his in your own eternally frigid grasp.

He whimpers your name softly and you drink it up with devotion; a septa to a pointed-star; and with a scrambled grasp in your pleasure, your hand finds the fig, split and discarded in the earth-heavy soil beside him.

It is with lidded eyes and puffing, parted lips that Jacaerys watches you, ravenous and ethereal.

Your hair cascades, a curtain once more – keeping out any prying eyes from the middle of night, keeping in huffs of innocent desire as his fingers tighten their grasp upon you, dragging you once more over the straining length of him.

Your fingers press into the wound of the fig and he is doused in a blaring hot ecstasy.

He bucks at the angelic vision of you, pressing into his heated arousal – as if he might sheathe himself in you now and bring his warmth into your very soul - and you, swirling in a misty breeze of desire, pressing so hungrily against him, bucking your hips with a stuttering pleasure that shoots rapturous satisfaction up his spine.

And then your fingers rise to those very lips he chases.

Your eyes roll back in the moonlight – of which he scarcely notes there is enough to douse the tree and you in a silvery breath – and you moan his name when you taste the juice of the fruit. It is a groan, a low drawl that stirs a beast low in his gut.

The scent is too enticing; abdomen clenching in restraint, his hips buck into yours and you hiss in pleasure, eyes returning to his own, pupils blown wide enough to swallow him. He wishes you would.

And it is nearly too much for Jacaerys to bear; the sight of you, wrapped around him and breath puffing in shallow gasps, the fig’s juice staining your lips and glistening over your fingers as they swirl in the broken flesh once more.

He lets out a shaky whimper, the pleasure mounting – his hands roam over your curves, frantic and trembling with the tension of wanting to hold you so close and wishing to ruin you completely.

In a hazy gasp, he wonders what in the realms he is doing now, out in the open so salaciously; but the thought blanks when he feels your hand, freezing as it curls over his clenched jaw.

His lips part for you easily, and your smile is hauntingly beautiful in silvered moonlight.

Your fingers brush over his lips; in a shivered groan, Jacaerys’ eyes flutter shut and his tongue darts out, unable to resist.

The thick, heady flavor sends heat through him, and he’s nearing that edge, that something - he groans, body arching underneath your epicurean touch as he lets your fingers slide past his lips, closing around them with hunger.

The sensation hits him; heat, coursing through his veins so hot it turns icy, burns under his skin. And he bucks desperately, tugging you closer, a shudder running through him as he sucks the juice from your skin, overwhelmed with need.

His body trembles underneath you; your touch, divine – otherworldly – and you hum, letting out a moan as your body stutters above him. Faintly, he is aware of your own peak rolling through you, of your moans, of the sickening smile that flashes above him – though the taste, the smell, the feeling of you slithering atop him – it’s too much.

Jacaerys groans and your fingers slide from his lips, instead cupping his jaw, coaxing his mouth open for your own lips to find him.

His groan becomes a gasp as he comes undone beneath you.

His head falls back against the bark of the tree, feeling its breaths stutter with your own as you follow him, curled into his chest, stuttering your movements as he grasps you in pleasure. His trousers, spent – yet he notices not, whispering your name weakly as his body pulses in an unknown pleasure. Your lips trail ridges of ice over the sliver of exposed collarbone under his tunic.

The juice of the fruit lingers in his mouth, pulsing oddly through his veins. And in a moment, the world shifts; his vision blurs, and as he blinks, the garden is different – bathed in golden sunlight, blooms wild and in full blood; and laughter, a girl and a boy’s, warbled and happy. His heart strikes; a calming unease, some familiar edge. Another boy’s laughter joins in, and his stomach douses in ice.

He blinks, and the garden is dark again, the ancient branches of the fig tree curling overhead like gnarled, sinister fingers.

He looks up at you, still dazed, his body spent but his mind whirling with the remnants of the pleasure and the strangeness that had gripped him so – and registers your stare, suddenly rigid and intent upon him.

He watches as you lean forward, body pressing against his. A lazy kiss, one that spurs him to chase as you lean back, tasting of those sweet figs; slick with saliva and desire as you suddenly lift a palm between you, brushing his heaving chest.

The sweetness hovers over his lips; he can nearly taste it, taste you – the scent is overwhelming, the presence of your body so close, so inviting; that hunger remains, even as his spend sticks to his trousers beneath you.

His eyes trace the macerated fig in your palm, its flesh bleeding and willing, sweet and hungering. The fig.

“Eat.”

Your voice, a soft command – and your eyes, dark, intense as they bore into his own. The fig presses lightly against his mouth, and his tongue darts to lap at the juice which gathers upon his bottom lip hungrily.

Pleasure blossoms at the taste, and in his heart swirls a yearning.

Though something stops him; a sudden wave of dizziness, a strange sensation pulling him from some darkened haze. He hesitates, blinking at the fruit in your hand.

“No.” He murmurs.

He sees it in a flash of moonlight – your smile, faltering.

It’s not disappointment, but something dark and fleeting – a deepened stare, a flash of malicious hunger; the sweetness of the garden suddenly gathers too thick, too heavy.

You’ve stilled in his lap and he vaguely registers the rigidity of your expression, some familiarly shadowed stare.

He’s not sure what he’s done wrong, but your lip trembles, and with a racing heart, he reaches for you. The look upon your visage stops him; a calculating flash in your gaze, the thin press of your lips.

And for the first time the whole night, fear creeps into his chest.

Something isn’t right.

His hand slips away from your cold touch, trembling now for a new reason; and that fig which hovers in your palm suddenly smells sickening, filled with dread and longing all at once. The soil is rotten, he thinks hazily, it’s rotten…You’re–

“Come, why won't you try? Just a bite?” Your words curl in a taunt – and he nearly responds, but you’re leaning forward, lips brushing over his ear and sending shivers down his spine. His fist curls savagely against the bark of the tree as his heart begins to pound.

“It’s only a fig, Jace.” You whisper, pressing your lips to the soft spot under his ear.

You move to lean back, the curl of your smirk against his neck melting as you shift, only a sweet smile remaining when you turn to look at him. But the fear and the desire have mixed into some beastly conviction within him.

And, in a moment of sharp courage, he catches your wrist in a firm, iron grip.

You freeze under his grasp, your eyes glinting almost ominously in the silver moonlight.

“Is it?” He snaps back, heart pounding in his chest as his jaw clicks. Somewhere in his heart, there is an unsettling air that chokes, stilling around you when you blink slowly at his question.

Your stare is sharp, but there is a flash of something there he’s not yet seen before; something, he thinks, must be mirrored in his own gaze.

Fear.

A part of him expects for your jaw to unhinge – for a beast to emerge, to swallow him whole, to rip him open and feast upon his innards; but instead your gaze shifts, and your face is small, youthfully beautiful and dripping in purity – a girl no more than his age.

And then, bone-chillingly, as though a petulant child would when denying a crime, you shake your head just lightly.

No.

A confirmation, one which sends a chill rather sharply down his spine.

And from his lips a stuttered breath – he should run, should scream; but what does such a thing do in dreams?

Yet as quickly as it came, the shadow over you vanishes.

As if he blinks and wakes from the hazy dream – your face, returned to that familiar sweetness he so adores, the chilling smile you save only for him. You cup his cheek gently, and it is enough to pull him back from the edge of terror.

Lilting and light once more, a touch of concern crossing your features as you tilt your head – “You look so troubled, my love. Where did you go?”

He blinks, confused, alarmed.

You press a kiss upon his lips, and he chases your touch. “Come back to me,” you whisper.

He blinks once more, heart still hammering - but the fear dissolves with each ancient breath of the soil beneath him; and he gazes into your eyes through the dark of night – those same eyes that have always seen him.

You understand him; and whatever that moment of dread had been— wherever he’d gone just now, into some visions conjured up by an exhausted mind – it is gone now, lost in the softness of the fig tree’s leaves, in the tenderness of your touch.

“I’m sorry, I...” You shift as you murmur and it presses against his spent arousal, his breath hitching as his eyes fall upon your sweet lips, mind fogging. “I sometimes forget myself. You’re just…”

His eyes hook upon your own, waiting; with bated breath, he waits for you.

Your lips press together bashfully, fingers toying with curls of his hair, “Special. I’m quite fond of you.” You admit, nearly shy – and an affection blossoms within Jacaerys, a grin trickling upon his lips. “I’m quite fond of you too,” He breathes, pressing a chaste kiss to your cheek.

Your eyes lose their sharp glint as the moon falls in the sky and his shoulders lose such tension that’d built in the moments past, replaced by the soothing touch of your palm; quiet whispers and gentle laughs that lull his mind into ease.

And it is there, in the very edge of Aegon’s Garden, that you and he repose for the better hours of the ghost and wolf, whispering of lifetimes and fears and sneaking kisses between mumbled sentences. He forgets the fear he’d felt, that he’d seen in your eyes; soon, fog of morning creeps into the garden and tickles tendrils round his boots.

He is lulled into your lap again - his head rested upon the plush of a cool thigh, your dress gentle against his heated cheeks.

And though he is unsure if the words that are murmured when his eyes become heavy are real or a part of his tricking mind, they fill him with that warm affection, that love that festers in his heart.

“I wish I could stay here,” He whispers when he is half asleep from exhaustion. “With you.”

There is a pause in your fingers for a moment.

“And you can,” Your voice is laced with something he cannot see - for a moment, his mind conjures a flash of something rather wicked, the memory of your face when he’d denied the fig; though he throws away such absurdity.

You’re so very soothing, trailing your nails along his temple.

He drifts away.

HE WAKES SOME TIME LATER.

He no longer lies upon your lap; instead he is pressed against your very body, his chest shivering in the cold line of you, in the breath of icy air that threatens from the sky above.

You stir beside him; the garden is impossibly darker now - and as you sit up, he unwinds the hand he’d placed upon your waist. Uncomely, he reminds himself - though, what does it matter? What does any of it matter?

“You dreamt,” You murmur.

Disoriented, Jacaerys blinks, trying to find your face in the dark; he’s merely met with the glinting of your wide eyes against the moonlight blinking owllishly.

“I…” He frowns, uneased by your observation. “I did. It was…” He shakes his head as he tries to recall, watching your frame materialize under the dark blanket of night. “Odd. A battle - over the sea, I think. Statues – dying, crumbling into the water.” He shakes away the creeping frustration of slipping memories, however distant or unreal. “It didn’t make sense.”

You hum, and there is some specific glint in your darkened face he nearly misses; the shining of pearls outstretched against plush lips - the flash of a dark grin, sinister in the moonlight, snuffed quick by the effort of a gentle nod.

He grows even more uncomfortable in the quiet - it must be nearing the early wake of sun; his muscles yield surprisingly little soreness for sleeping upon the earth.

“Did you dream?” He wonders, relaxing as his eyes adjust to find your visage calm and sweet, watching him with a soft interest. What odd tricks his mind plays in the dark.

Your voice, ever distant: “I don’t dream.”

He’s imbued with the slow tendrils of sleep, though he frowns. “Everyone dreams,” He murmurs.

You huff smally, tilting your head in that doelike way, “I suppose I can never recall them.”

He laughs, then – a hollow thing, though recovering some of the warmth gone after the loneliness settled in those moons ago. A strained sound, though it makes you mimic his laughter in that odd way you sometimes do – and with a smile, you watch him intently.

“I enjoy hearing your laugh, Jacaerys. It’s comfortable… familiar.”

And for some odd reason, perhaps in seek of his own comforting memory, Jacaerys pictures Luke – laughter bubbling over at the drawing table of his mother’s quarters, breaking fast as a family; and a deep melancholy settles over him, pulling him deep into the pit of grief that finds him in the night.

His smile falls. “My brother used to laugh until he turned red.” He recalls, settled into that haze that begins to reclaim him, as if he’s drifting to sleep once more. “He’d lose breath sometimes – like he had to suck air out of every lung in the keep, just to keep himself from passing out. It would make him laugh harder.”

You smile in his peripheral.

His brows furrow. “He was just always so full of…light.”

He’s not sure why he offers such information – it is near impossible these days for Jacaerys to utter Luke’s name aloud, let alone think such fond memories.

Though something about the blanket of night and the gentle brush of your thigh against his own, brings a lull to his mind; as though he’s sipped too many cups of wine, or still rests in some odd state of slumber. The remainder of the fig’s juices slip past his tongue when he wettens his lip, and he’s coaxed into that state of hungry bliss – not fully satisfied, yet pleasant to repose.

Your fingers pull at the many frays of your odd dressskirts; in the faint moonlight, the fabric looks as though it has stains. Deep, dark streaks that blossom just near your breast and stomach; they seem to spread with the breaths you take, your hands beginning to shake. He blinks rapidly to rid himself of such an uneasy sight.

A statue of a man and woman across the way has caught a streak of moonlight; He’d not noticed any statue in the fig tree’s courtyard hours ago, but now it sits, gruesomely pale in the scarce silver - and their faces are rather distraught.

A familiar statue, one so alike the marbled lovers near the olive tree. A man, wind-and-water-torn, with that same arrow protruding through his flesh; and the woman in his arms watching with a transfixed expression, grasping at his arms with lonely eyes.

He tears his eyes away uneasily.

“I know a boy like that, too.” You whisper quietly, though Jacaerys is hooked upon the odd bend of the arrow which sticks through the statue’s shoulder across the way. He’s not quite sure what you mean, and his brows furrow.

“-Though,” You shrug with only one shoulder, as though mimicking the woman from the statue, “His laugh is more full of water.”

Jacaerys freezes.

His heart stops at your words, breath catching in his throat - the mention of such a thing sends a chill through him. “What—” He whispers, mind flashing back to the glimpse of curls, of that bouncing gait, of the blue that had flickered through these very hedges days ago.

“What do you mean?” He chokes.

You smile that soft smile – the one that haunts his mind, that leaves him uneasy in the flickering of moonlight. “I see him in the garden sometimes,” Your eyes flicker, gleam, “He comes here – to the fig tree – during rainstorms. He told me he used to enjoy the sound, but now he detests them.”

Jacaerys is rooted to the ground, staring wide-eyed into the yawning chasm of night; its jaw spread wide, your face the shining beacon of fire at the base of its throat.

The pain of a lost limb; of a lost soul entwined with his own, cut from the same womb, carved from the same stone. But your voice echoes drearily through the quiet silence.

“And the boy…His laugh,” Your brows knit faintly, “It’s like yours, but…drowned.”

Every hair on the nape of his neck is on end as he lets out a shaky breath. No. Lucerys is dead, he reminds himself.

Your fingers brush his hand against the soil; cold as ice.

The sensation jolts him, and he leaps to his feet, sleepclothes uncomfortable, his skin sticky from the sins of earlier. His cheeks flood with heat.

It is wrong. Dread fills him, the leak of a moat into a basin of fear; there’s something wrong about this - because Lucerys is dead, his father is dead, Rhaenys is dead - all of them, dead.

Life moves on, but the dead do not; and it is a burden he carries, and he carries alone - because the crown is too heavy to be marred by the blood of the ones you’ve loved, so Jacaerys must bear the weight for him and his mother.

How could you have seen him?

“-You know how.”

Your voice comes sharp from the tree below, and it strikes him through the stomach - and before he can consider the unnerving murmur from your lips, how you’re always seeing into the words in his mind, the thread has snapped.

It’s only a fig, Jace.

He staggers back a few steps, feet caught on the twisting gnarl of treeroot. “I’ve… I apologize, I must go.” He murmurs, swallowing thickly; and with a shaky breath, he resists the urge for his mind to spiral into that dark place, where grief and madness lie in wait.

He turns away from the lulling ease of the tree above, nearly as large a shadow as the castle itself – and takes one, two, many steps towards the hedges, chest thundering.

Perhaps you call after him.

He thinks he hears your dress snagging on thorns and branches behind him as he tears through the bowels of the rotting garden; rounding a corner, he hears a feline’s hiss, a dark rumble of thunder. The garden is wrong – a putrid thing, in the dead light of nightingale’s earliest breaths.

It is rotten soil, a voice mimics – though his heart still pounds your name into his ribs; he still misses the chilling press of your lips to his own, the sweet saccharin taste of the fruit upon your tongue.

The soil is sick, it is too rich in his nostrils; and when he staggers past the maiden statue, he is terrified to see there is no snake upon her thigh – instead her visage stares down at him with a wicked, serpentlike grin.

A shiver of fear as he blinks back terror.

Morning glories are trampled underfoot, poppies beaten until their bloody leaves smash into the soles of his boots.

Jacaerys’ eyes clench shut and he pretends not to hear the faint mix of joint laughter – warbled in the distance, a girl’s and a boy’s, bubbling over before dissolving, echoing into the crash of the icy ocean below.

An agonizing gasp of unease from him as he finally bursts to the entryyard, the wilting flowers decaying in a sickly sweet scent. He nearly retches.

When Jacaerys pushes past the gate and into the bailey’s courtyard, the breaking dawn is cloudless.

Early morningbirds chirp in the sky; waves crash down upon the shore, lit bloody with the waking sun. He is very alone.

taglist: @softspiderling @lukehughes43 @rhea-ripley @writtenapoiogy @fyrewept @oldtowrs @bryscorner @chloe-petrichors @jottositto @solavita @earth4angels @benjinotes @divinesolas @hxtd @astrxq @housetargaryenloyalist @bucksplum @v3lary0ns @princessvelaryon @princessbellecerise @still-jon-snow @elaena-aerrin @mckennah123 @smurfelle @alyssa-dayne @uhnanix @house-celtigar @ficlovegirlie @cregan-starks @manhandlememando @inkandarsenic @cuntlips42 @franzelt

#jacaerys velaryon x reader #jacaerys targaryen x reader #jace x reader #jace smut #jacaerys x reader #jacaerys x reader smut #jacaerys smut #hotd x reader #hotd smut #hotd imagine #jace velaryon

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rottenpumpkin13 · 6 months ago

Text

Cloud's small hand wrapped around his mother's finger as he babbled. Claudia laughed, burying her nose in his soft blond hair and nuzzling him gently. "Happy first birthday," she whispered.

Cloud’s second birthday was marked by excited squeals when he saw the brightly colored toy train his mother presented him. “Tain!” he exclaimed as Claudia set it in his lap, laughing as she pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. “Happy birthday, my darling.”

“Cloud!” Claudia laughed on the afternoon of Cloud's third birthday, watching the excited toddler dig his fist into his chocolate birthday cake and happily grab the candle between his messy fingers. “You're not supposed to do that!”

“Why is it raining today?” four-year-old Cloud huffed, upset as he sat by the window and watched the early August rain hammer against the glass. “I wanna go outside!”

“Think of the rain as a birthday gift!” his mother called back from the kitchen. “Now you can go out and play in the mud!”

Cloud grinned, lighting up as he leapt off the chair and bolted outside. It was going to be a good birthday indeed.

Claudia gifted him a small, blue backpack for his fifth birthday, perfect for his first day at the schoolhouse the following week. “I like it!” Cloud declared, slipping the backpack on.

“Woah!” Cloud mused as he ran into the kitchen on the morning of his sixth birthday. There, a wooden sword with a red bow tied around its hilt sat waiting for him. “It's exactly like a SOLDIER’s, right mom?”

Cloud's seventh birthday was somber as he sat alone with a small cake his mother made. None of the village kids showed up for his party.

“I wonder what Sephiroth did on his eighth birthday,” Cloud wondered aloud as he hung the poster his mother had gifted him on his bedroom wall.

“Hey!” Tifa waved to him as he was going back into the house after playing. Cloud blushed, self-consciously wiping away the dirt from his clothes. “H-Hey!” he called back.

Tifa smiled. “Happy birthday!” she said. “Nine is a big age!” And then she dipped back into her own house. Cloud sighed. Not big enough to join SOLDIER.

“Maybe everyone's just late,” his mother, ever the optimist, suggested on the evening of his tenth birthday. It was nine. Everyone was supposed to be there at six. Cloud shook his head, ripping off his party hat and looking at the cake his mother had baked with a mix of guilt and nausea.

“No, mom. They're just not coming.”

Cloud started his eleventh birthday by measuring himself on the door frame. “Aw, man” he groaned, stepping back to see that his height had not changed from the previous year.

Cloud spent the evening of his twelfth birthday on the water tower, looking up at the stars, wondering what it would be like to touch them, hearing the soft sounds of the piano drifting from Tifa’s room. It was the birthday he decided to stop trying to make birthdays special.

On his thirteenth birthday, Cloud's mother gave him a suitcase. “Woah,” Cloud mused, impressed as he picked it up, weighing it for size. “Mom, are you serious?”

Claudia smiled softly. "For the journey ahead," she said, pulling him into a hug.

Fourteen was the age Cloud stopped wishing for material possessions for his birthdays. He wanted only three things: to finally join SOLDIER, a friend, and to take care of his mother.

Cloud's fifteenth birthday gift was given to him early that morning, with chaos and laughter giving way into the moment his squad mates woke him up. They grabbed him out of his bed and dragged him into a cold shower. He pretended to laugh, to enjoy the seemingly harmless prank, but inside he was mortified. And now very cold.

On his sixteenth birthday, Zack handed Cloud a cupcake with a single, flickering candle. Cloud hadn't been expecting it, but he should've figured something was up the minute Zack walked up to him with his arms behind his back, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

"What did you wish for?" Zack asked the minute Cloud blew out the flame.

Cloud huffed. “As if I'd tell you.”

“Hey!” Zack laughed, punching him playfully. “Don't forget, you can't talk to me like that anymore. I'm the adult here—eighteen trumps your sixteen!”

Cloud laughed with him, staring down at his cupcake. He wished all birthdays would be like this.

Cloud wasn't awake for his seventeenth birthday. Hojo's calculating gaze scrutinized him through the glass of the mako tank.

Eighteen came with a metaphorical slap to the face. "Subject approximately eighteen,” Hojo muttered, observing Cloud in his cell. Cloud's sense of time was warped. Zack was eighteen too, wasn't he?

Cloud was strapped to a table on his nineteenth birthday. The lab was filled with the sound of his screams.

On his twentieth birthday, Cloud watched through the mako tank as Zack was subjected to a torment familiar to him—strapped to the table, enduring agony under a knife, his screams piercing the air. Cloud couldn't do anything.

Cloud's twenty-first birthday passed in a haze as he lay comatose. But Zack was determined. He pulled him closer in the back of the truck they had hitched a ride in. "Happy birthday, buddy,” Zack whispered, placing a soft kiss on his forehead.

On his twenty-second birthday, Cloud stood motionless as Tifa hugged him tightly. "Happy birthday!” she said, holding enough excitement within her to last him a lifetime. Twenty-two, he kept repeating in his mind. Was he really twenty-two already?

Cloud spent the early hours of the morning on his twenty-third birthday staring into a bathroom mirror. He traced his fingers over his face, looking at every line, every scar, his hair, his nose, everything. It was so strange. This was the age Zack was when he died.

On his twenty-fourth birthday, Cloud sat beside the Buster Sword, tears streaming down his face. "I'm sorry," he sobbed quietly. He was now older than Zack would ever be.

#ff7 #ffvii #final fantasy 7 #final fantasy vii #cloud strife #writing #zack fair

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bubbles-for-all-of-us · 9 months ago

Text

You don’t get to tell me about sad

Previous chapter

a/n part three! I’m brain dead so sorry for the wait. I hope you will all enjoy this. 🫧🫶🏻

summary: Azriel gets an assignment he can’t seem to decline. Now he has a princess full of attitude under his protection. The only question is whose cold heart will break first.

warning: past trauma, scars, injuries, blood.

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You were sure that your lip was going to burst from the way you kept biting on it, trying to suppress the laugh as the carriage rolled through the misty autumn forest. Convinced that nothing was ever going to top the sight of Azriel, squished the opposite of you. He was scowling so hard that he was most definitely the reason why the sky had ripped open. Pouring rain drowned the lush forest since the early morning. It looked like you were driving to a funeral at best, gruesome execution at best.

“Don’t start with me today," Azriel grunts, his eyes burning into yours. Yet now that he acknowledged you, the smile only seemed to spread wider. He lets out a grunt, and a quiet giggle slips past your lips. "Princess, life suits you," you mumble, making Azriel roll his eyes. “Come on now; it’s not so bad. Don’t huff”, you nudge his leg with your heel, earning yet another glare.

“Could have winnowed us there”, “You did almost all the way”, you point out. And you would have happily obliged, but the murmurs about something being wrong with the high lord’s family had started. So Lucien and Eris had made their outing. If not for the rain, you would have done just the same. Take a walk through the main streets. But now seeing the family carriage and your face through the glass would have to be enough.

“Why do you hate autumn so much?”, It’s a bold statement to make. You’re not sure if he even hates it. Well, considering the amount of frowning he does, he has to. “I have my reasons," Azriel answers as bluntly as he can. “Care to elaborate?", you turn to him, ready to dig an answer out of him if you had to. He owned you, considering his creeping around your room. But your eyes fall on the way he’s trying to subtly rub his palms together. The scarred skin—humidity must be making the bones ache too. He’s impossible to read, but you’re convinced that the discomfort hunts some of his features. You don’t care. You shouldn’t care, yet you still inch closer. There’s not much space inside the carriage considering that man’s size, but it’s enough for you to brush your legs against him. As expected, Azriel’s hands instantly reached to put distance between you both. But that’s when you yank the side of your cloak up, draping the fur-lined material over his scared palms.

“What are you?", "Shhhh," you say quickly. He tries to pull them out, but you catch his gaze—a daring look there. “Know your”, but you cut him off once more, “Next words out of your mouth better be, thank you, princess," you muse. Azriel clenches his jaw. But he doesn’t pull back. Doesn’t fight the warmth slowly seeping through the stiff skin. “I thought you hated that nickname, princess," he says. One thing this man hadn’t learned in life was dealing with women. Clearly. You shrug, “Not so bad when it’s you who calls me that," you muse, watching as a glimpse of surprise washes over his features, and then the scowling coldness returns.

Azriel doesn’t like it here. The thought alone had unsettled him ever since Lucien had announced the need to go back. “The High Lord needs to make a statement," Lucien had stated. Azriel itched to say that Eris wasn’t his high lord. But he knew that regardless of Eris’s wishes, he would have gone. Because you were going there. So here he was, standing outside the forest house. Not daring to go forward alone. You had waved him off. Told him to go inside while you checked on the horses. But he refused to step inside. So he stood there, trying to memorize every window.

“Who’s snooping now?", your voice fills Azriel’s ear as he slowly turns to you. Arms crossed as you grin at him. He wonders why you hadn’t mentioned that night in your room. Why you brushed it off so easily. “I just needed to stretch my wings." It’s not so much of a lie. It had been a disaster of a trip here. You barely manage to open your lips when an unfamiliar voice comes from behind, “Yn, Yn.“

Azriel pushes you behind him, his hand reaching for his dagger. But you slip out of his grasp, glancing over his shoulder. And then you’re stepping forward. “Makoa?”, it’s a whisper, and Azriel doubts that a disheveled-looking boy would hear it. But he does. And that name alone makes Azriel uneasy. The same boy you had sneaked out with. And just like that Azriel decides that he hates Makoa.

"Wait," you push again Azriel's arm, but his grip doesn’t falter. “Anyone can be a threat," the spymaster points out. “I know him," and it’s the desperation that makes Azriel back up. The same one that he had when he called out to Mor. To Elain. The lost kind. One that had you hanging up on things that weren’t there.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you," Makoa mutters once he is in arms reach of you. Azriel has to bite his tongue because nothing about that statement seems genuine. “You can imagine it’s been busy over here," and your voice is different too. Hazy almost. You bite at Azriel. Spewing venom. And here, this boy makes you behave like a youngling with your first-ever crush. “You could have written to me; I’ve missed you." Makoa raises his hand, and Azriel instantly inches to step forward, but then the boy is leaning in, his lips brushing over yours. Making Azriel lower his head. A strange sort of feeling brews within him. One that’s not welcome here. So he turns back onto his heel, heading deeper into the woods. To clear his consciousness. His logical thinking. His heart.

“Everyone missed you," Makoa points out, your hands clasped in his. The feeling is strange. It’s all so wrong because, yes, he has been vocal about courting you, but this… To be kissed in front of someone he doesn’t even know. You glance back. Eyes scanning the front gardens. He’s not there. Azriel isn’t there, and a dreadful sort of uneasiness pools in your stomach.

“It’s just been a couple of days," you brush his statement off. You were trying to find joy in something you had dreamed of ever since you slipped that book beneath the floorboards. “You’re behaving strangely," Makoa mutters, his hand reaching out for your forehead, but you bat it away. “I’m just tired," but you’re more than tired. You need answers, and quite frankly, you’re willing to do about anything to get them.

You can trust the man in front of you. His mother used to do laundry for your family. Until Beron changed his mind or whatever happened. As if reading your mind, Makoa reaches up, cupping your cheek, “What is it you can tell me?" A part of you is screaming to just drop it. Talk to Azriel first. But then he wasn’t there. He wouldn’t know.

“Do you remember the night on the harvest moon, well after it?”, you say quietly, looking over your shoulder for servants. “I walked you home," Makoa shrugs. Well, he did more than that, but sure, that will do for now. “Someone was waiting for me," you admit. “I didn’t go inside; I went to the barn to feed the horses." It was misty and cold outside. You didn’t catch their face. Just a hooded figure.

“I... someone tried to slice my throat open." Brushing your hair to the side, you let the white line shine in the midday sun. Makoa watches. But he doesn’t frown. There’s almost no reaction. Azriel looked more concerned when you caught him brushing his fingers over it that night. Genuine concern. Or maybe you were just imagining it.

Makoa brings you into his chest. “What a shame," he breathes out, and your hands are instantly pushing against his chest. "Pardon," you huff, brows knit together. “I mean, it’s horrible, yes," he says, lifting his arms in defiance. You shake your head. Too tired. Too tired for this. After all, you didn’t expect him to take you seriously. He was too wild. Too carefree for that.

"Look, just be careful, okay?", you mutter, your eyes searching him, but he only shoots you a wicked smile. “You don’t have to worry about me," he muses. You burn to tell him that you both are no longer kids. There are serious matters, but you don’t have it in you to fight another battle today. “I’ll see you in the party," you say as you step back, letting your fingers slip out of his grasp. But then he’s pulling you back. Hand on the side of your face. An eager kiss smothered against your lips, “I wouldn’t miss the spectacle.”

Azriel’s task this weekend was easy. If he was being honest, he didn’t quite grasp why exactly he was asked to come. But then Eris might have just done it to spite him. All he was responsible for was keeping an eye on you when Eris and Lucien couldn’t. So essentially, babysit a grown woman. Now he was standing with his back against your door. Throwing his knife up and down in his hands. Trying to beat his record of spins before it lands back into his palm.

“Okay, am...", your voice breaks the second-floor silence, making Azriel pause. “Can you get Maria?”, Azriel shakes his head even if you can’t see him, “She just went outside for the flower arrangements." The elderly woman had pinched his cheek way too many times, but as much as he hated it, she reminded Azriel of his own mom.

"Fuck," the sound of things falling inside the room, makes Azriel press his ear to the door.“What’s going on?”, he demands. Silence falls. “I...", you start, but it ends with a frustrated sigh. “Well, let’s hear it," he muses, hoping for yet another privileged little dig he could throw back at you.

“I can’t reach the back of the dress to do the..." It’s a whisper. A frustrated one at that. “We have twenty minutes," Azriel points out. “I know, tree man, I know," you growl in frustration, cursing to yourself as you continue to struggle.

“I'm coming in," Azriel states, instantly frowning at his own words. "No, you are not," you snarl, and he is sure that you are frowning. “On three," the spymaster warns. But he doesn’t even get a chance to start the countdown. “Fucking, Azriel,” you say, yanking the door open. Rosy cheeks. Slightly disheveled hair. And that deep red satin dress. So far different from the one he had seen you in the first time you both met. That was a girl. This… You were meant to be in red. In…

“Eyes up here, moron," you say, reaching up to flick his nose. One arm holding the material upfront. You turn away from him. The smooth back exposed to his scared hands. Azriel shakes those thoughts away. “I’ve seen females before," he states, reaching for the golden buttons. “Really? I would have taken you for a virgin," you snort, shaking your head ever so slightly. Azriel fake gasps, earning a glimmer in your eyes. “What is that supposed to mean?”, he says in the most dramatic way possible. You bite your lip, trying to hide that smile. He knows it. Feels it.

“Just do the dress up," you urge him, motioning to your back. Azriel halts, letting his hands drop to his side. “Start with a please," he says proudly. You glance up at him, “Are you being serious?” Surely a man who just completed about the amount of time you had wasn’t going to start playing games. “I decided that etiquette lessons are in order," he shrugs, making you roll your eyes. “I will spit in your drink tonight. How is that for your etiquette lessons?” You flash him one of your fake smiles. “Delightful, just how I like it," and it’s so unexpected that you are left slack-jawed for a split second, and then he grabs your shoulder and turns you around, nudging you forward. “You’re disgusting," you say, pushing your heel against his leg, making a little rumble of laughter fill the space. “Says you," he breathes practically against your skin, sending shivers down your back.

You fidget with your sleeve as you and Azriel make your way towards the main part of the event. Public outings still felt strange. The big crowd overwhelmed you. But you had missed out on so many great things and parties, especially when you were growing up. That now….

“Only a weirdo disappears like that," you halt suddenly, leaving Azriel to walk along until he too stops. Turning to face you. You quickly put a finger against your lips, stepping closer to the second-floor railing. “That’s what I told Makoa”. You know those voices. You don’t even need to look down the staircase to know who they belong to.

“Daddy beat her, I heard," and it’s like someone dumped a bucket of ice water on you. Tingles spread through your body like fire.“ She lived beneath the floorboards; I doubt she knows how to interact with living things." You let the words slash at you. After so many years, they don’t make a difference. It’s the fact that every time you feel as if you found someone willing to look past it, they still end up stabbing you in the back.

That’s when your eyes fall on Azriel, practically charging towards the stairs. "Don't," you hiss, reaching to grab at his wrist, pulling him back. “It’s disrespectful, and I’m being very polite with my words here," he grunts. Venom. Purest of venom painting his features, and yet you cut him off. “I said don't," you step in front of him, pressing your palms against his chest. “It’s just another joke for them. You throwing a fit and acting all gruff won’t change a thing.”

Azriel watches you for a moment before a bitter laugh crawls up his throat. “And those are your friends? People that you think are not a threat to you? ”, he points downstairs in frustration. A wave of guilt. Shame. Fills you in seconds. You feel that familiar sting in your eyes. But you brush it beneath all the other pain. “Daddy got them for me; I didn’t have a chance to choose; my apologies," you purr through gritted teeth.

And it’s as if you threw a comeback punch. The arrow shooting once again. Azriel’s shoulders sag. “Yn...", he breathes out, but you don’t want it. Don’t want pity. The sad eyes. The smothering. To hell with it. “We should go find my brothers." You pick at the skirt of your dress, turning to the stairs. “It was insensitive of me," Azriel’s words slam into the wall you had built, making you close your eyes for a moment. “Don’t get tangled in this; this has nothing to do with you," you mutter, not turning back to face him. Forcing your legs forward. Azriel stands at the top of the staircase for a heartbeat, watching you. Then he glances over his shoulder. One heartbeat. Two. And he unleashes his shadows to the first floor.

The terrace is buzzing with people. If it were up to Azriel, he would be right by the platform, but there are Eris’s guards here. So he’s just standing by. That prick had it in him to suggest wine. Azriel, of course, took it. Before dumping it right next to Eris’s shoes. Rhys told him to behave, yes. And so he was, because the second option was to punch the fireling in his face. Pick and choose.

Azriel catches a glimpse of you. Well, more like all he had been doing was catching glimpses of you. Like a moth to a flame. Even if he tells himself not to, his eyes always seem to find you. That distant look in your eyes. Like you’re not here, even if your body is. He also doesn’t doubt that it’s partly because of the things the people said. Why not fight back? You seem to be fine doing that when it comes to him. But crumple the moment the people who are meant to be closest to you are involved.

As if by coincidence, your eyes glance up, meeting Azriel’s. He should be scowling, yet he finds himself smiling. Just a little. He puts a finger beneath his chin, pushing it higher. Encouragement of sorts. You’re supposed to radiate power, not look like a damsel in distress. You return it with an eye roll, making the corners of Azriel’s lips curve even more. Deny it or not. You do lift your head up. That tingle of fire blazing just a bit brighter. That will do. It would have to be enough to get you through it.

The music dies, and Eris walks close to the platform edge, that fox-line smile on his face. “It’s an honor to have you all here, so I thank you for finding time to join us," the high lord begins. “I know that the court is facing some challenging times, but you should not be afraid." Azriel crosses his arms over his chest as he listens. “I will do everything that is in my power to protect our people and be a true and fair high lord." Then the Autumn High Lord turns back breathy. “And... I’ll have my family to aid me in these matters," motioning for his two siblings to come to stand closer. “Lucien and Y/n Vanserra will be taking their rightful place on the throne." The crowd explodes with chairs and joyful applause. As the three siblings smile in unison.

“And…”, But there’s no and. Nothing comes after it. As if someone had stolen all of the other promises. Azriel feels it too. It hits his senses. Making them restless. There’s something wrong. Something that doesn’t feel right. A banner behind the platform bursts into flames. The hot tongues, lapping at the family insignia. Some people back up. Eris waves for his guards, ordering them into action. People are bringing buckets full of water while Eris and Lucien try to wield the wildfire.

It’s the lightest of the sounds that follow next. It flickers, and... "Y/n," Azriel calls, making you snap your head sideways. “Y/n," he breathes out, and then he’s winnowing. His hands already stretched out. He has to make it. He will make it. There is no other option. So Azriel doesn’t let the what-ifs set in. Shrieks echo. Chaos breaks out. And then he’s up there. On the platform. One arm behind your body, the other on the arrow.

The time stops. Your wide eyes are looking at him. Green so deep that Azriel knows he has never seen anything like it. The freckles seem even darker now that your skin has paled almost to snow white. His fingers are trembling. He can’t see it. Can’t fucking see it; the bunched-up fabric is making it hard to judge. Had the arrow met its target? Your heart seems to beat beneath his palm. But are those the last beats? Then the red fabric turns an even deeper shade of red.

Every muscle tenses in Azriel’s body. "No," he mutters under his breath. He’s not letting you die just like that. Not on his watch. Not in some pointless death just because someone has a bone to pick with your brother. Your eyelashes flutter, and just for a heartbeat, Azriel is too slow to catch you. Your body sags, but the arrow stays there in Azriel’s head. It didn’t meet its target. Not fully, at least. Just nicked the skin. It feels as if someone rolled a mountain off of his chest.

"Azriel," it’s so light he almost misses it. The plea. The fear. Your fingers reach up for his leg. His darkness swirls around you both. And quite frankly, the spymaster is not too sure as to what’s going on outside. The world might as well be going to shit for all he cares. Kneeling, Azriel takes hold of your trembling hands, “I’ve got you, darling; I won’t let anything happen to you." He’s not sure if you even hear him. Eyes fixed on something as if you’re looking right past him.“I'm here; I'm with you," Azrie promises, moving to drape your arms over his shoulders. “Are you with me, love?” You’ve gone into shock, that he can tell. Yet you blink. Fingers gripped onto his flying leathers as you nod. "Good," he says, brushing a strand of hair away from your face, “Hold onto me, fireheart”.

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#azriel acotar x reader #azriel acotar imagine #azriel x you #azriel x oc #azriel imagine #azriel x reader #azriel spymaster #azriel shadowsinger #azriel acotar #azriel #acotar imagine #acotar x reader #acotar x oc #acotar x you #eris vanserra x reader #lucien vanserra x reader

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